Squinting

Dear all,

R is back in the spotlight again and it’s not a very flattering light.  He has taken his mock common entrance exams (his mock senior school entrance exams).  We had some differences of opinions while he prepared for these exams, namely WE thought he should have his nose in a book and HE thought he should walk around with a book, singing Led Zeppelin songs.  Finally, we agreed that we’d let him do it his way and see how it all worked out.  Or not.

The one thing you can say about R is this:  he is NOT your average student.  There is nothing average about him at all.  He is either above or below (in direct correlation to how much he likes his teacher), but he is certainly not average.

It was a little tricky congratulating him for his magnificent triumphs when he needed a kick in the pants for his, well, below average work. 

One night J and I lay awake wondering what to do with R.  I was feeling desperate and was running out of ideas to motivate R.  J reminded me that two years ago M was a huge worry.  It seems like ages ago, but yes, I worried day in and day out about M for years. Maybe it is R’s turn or maybe it is his age or maybe in time, kids will all turn out just fine no matter what…

When the kids were toddlers and even into grade school, I’d find that at night, when the room was dark, I could squint my eyes, stare at them sleeping in their beds and see them as babies.  I could remember their soft breath and how they felt in my arms.  There they were, these big kids, but with a little darkness and just a bit of squinting, those babies were right there.  I still stare at A as he sleeps. 

Those small, pudgy babies of mine disappeared and now I step over piles of muddy grown up shoes by the front door.  I feel robbed of precious moments.   

When the kids were small (and still with A), exhausted, we’d practically limp upstairs to put them to bed.  We read the same favorite books over and over until I thought my mind would turn to soup.  I figure somewhere around fourteen years of reading Cars! Cars! Cars! can do damage to your brain.

Time is smooth and seamless.  Each day spent with our young family was noisy and chaotic, however change came about silently:  babies became toddlers and toddlers became kids.   Preferences evolved.  How could I have known the significance as I placed The Runaway Bunny back onto the shelf that one particular night, that I would never be asked to read it again?  Well over a decade of reading this tattered book and I placed it along side the other books on the shelf without thought or notice, without ceremony. I wasn’t aware at the time, but this simple act of putting away a book was profound:  an end of an era.  In that small and seemingly insignificant motion, part of their childhood, and my mothering, was over.

I had an epiphany recently, just days after I worried so much about R.  M and S were in the kitchen talking, laughing and helping out.  I watched them in a way that I hadn’t before.  I stood back and really had a good look at them, like they were some sort of experiment and I was a scientist extracting data.  I noticed how they interacted.  I listened to their voices and to the intelligent and funny conversation they were sharing.  And then I did it:  I squinted.

In that moment I discovered something even MORE magical and MORE joyful than seeing babies in big kids.  Squinting in the full light of day, right there in our kitchen, I saw an amazing sight:  our twins were nearly adults.  It didn’t take much to see that they are almost there. 

As I processed this in my mind, it surprised me just how much, through watery eyes, I liked what I saw.

With love from England,

T-Ann

Somerfield

Dear all, 

When J and I flew to England to find a house and school, our relocation agent took us down Bath Road in Cheltenham.  He suggested that we try to find a home close to this shopping district, because we would be spending a lot of time there. It is THE place to shop for everyday essentials:  a chippy (fish and chip joint), 2 chemists, 2 butchers, 2 grocery shops, 3 Indian restaurants, the post office, a kitchen store, a green grocer, a deli, a bakery, an office/art supply shop, an old fashion shoe store and a repair shop like on Sesame Street except I’m pretty Luis wasn’t laundering money like these owners are.

The sidewalks were crowded with merchandise for sale, parked bikes, shoppers, window washers and postmen.  I couldn’t imagine myself there.  Essential shopping?  Really?  There was no Target, Old Navy or Barnes and Noble.  There wasn’t a single drive through or bagel shop. Not a Mattress Giant or Korean nail spa.  No Petsmart.  No Starbucks.  No TGI Fridays.  No seagulls hovering above an urban sea of blacktop and minivans.

We found a house just a couple blocks from this shopping Mecca.  I shop on the Bath Road nearly every day. 

My first venture to Somerfield, a grocery store, left me digging around my bag for hand sanitizer.  It was dirty.  The floors were grimy, the shelves crusty, the choice paltry.  The bucked toothed, greasy haired carnies that manned the tills didn’t look at all like the nice moms who worked at Target.  I suspected I wouldn’t last long in this country.

It didn’t take long, though, before I got used to the sticky floors and the awe-inspiring lack of service.  I kind of like that I can shop in a place five or six days a week, year after year and never be offered so much as a knowing glance.

Shopping there is like snooping through the grade school janitor’s closet:  Standing at the altar of organized filth, with its dirty contents neatly organized on shelves, is exhilarating.  Exchanging nervous glances with the tattooed bad ass in charge, electrifying. 

I feel a kinship to Somerfield’s patrons:  we are a slightly anti-social people and we are lazy.  We shop at Somerfield simply because it is a block closer than the other cleaner grocery store.   We’re a pretty pathetic lot. 

When an enormous hairy spider climbed out from behind some bananas, Somerfield emptied; its patrons fled, all screaming and arms flailing onto Bath Road.  They stopped traffic and the event made the front page of our local paper.  It made me delight in this grotty place all the more.  

I see a faint look of concern pass over our visitors’ faces when they enter our little shop.  I see their lips curl ever so slightly, a combination of wonder, disgust and pity.   They ask if Somerfield is a convenience store. ‘Nope. It’s Somerfield. It’s where I shop’, I say proudly, ‘And where YOUR next meal is coming from.’

And now it is closing. 

What a drag.  I will now have to shop at the Co-op, which is brighter and fresher and has a better selection. The cashiers at the Co-op are lovely people and they do not possess any of the freak show qualities I find charming.  For instance, the Co-op cashiers bathe and the women are clean-shaven with a low rate of tattoage.  Plus, they are downright pleasant which I find terribly grating, but in time, I’ll get used to that, too, I suppose.

With love from England,

T-Ann

Driving on the Wrong Side of the Road Part 2

Dear all,

In my second and final installment on driving, I would like to delve further into the joys and sorrows of driving on the wrong side of the road.  I have been living in England for so long now, that I get confused when I go home and drive in the US.  Pretty much, in either country, I just like to follow the car in front of me and hope it knows where it’s going.

In England, despite the strict testing and training of drivers, the rules of the road, are really more like guidelines.  One glaring example is that the Brits drive into oncoming traffic.  A lot.

The main reason for driving into oncoming traffic is to snag a parking place before anyone else takes it, which seems perfectly legitimate to me.  Parking is at a premium and no one is going to let a little thing like the threat of a serious accident, prevent them from getting a parking space.  Cars are parked in every which way, including on the sidewalk or perpendicular if it’s convenient.  Looking at the direction of parked cars on a road offers no indication as to the flow of traffic. 

The children’s orthodontist is on a congested road.  The preferred method of parking in that part of town is for one car to park on the sidewalk, another car parallel to it on the street.  If the car on the sidewalk needs to leave before the car on the street, the driver simply proceeds down the sidewalk until he reaches a lane from which he may emerge onto the street.  So what if cars are driving on sidewalks directly across from a grade school?   Those little kids just need to keep a heads up. 

The other legitimate reason for driving into oncoming traffic is if, say, you want to drop groceries off in front of your home (houses don’t come with garages conveniently attached), but you happen to be driving on the opposite side of the road.  Or you see a friend across the way with whom you’d like to chit-chat. There is no need to go around the block and pull up in front of the house or person.  You simply pull into oncoming traffic and park (as a courtesy to other drivers, but not to pedestrians, you pull onto the sidewalk, forcing moms with young children or the elderly to walk into the street to get around you). 

You can’t just fly down the street in the manner of a drunk driver.  There is a subtle art it.  In order to NOT to frighten oncoming traffic, you mustn’t jerk the car over quickly or swerve.  Instead, you must drive confidently into oncoming traffic for quite a distance before pulling slightly to the right and jumping the curb.  Driving half on the sidewalk and half on the road into oncoming traffic is the universal signal that says:  I-mean-you-no-harm-I-simply-want-to-catch-up-with-an-old-friend-or-drop-off-my-potted-plants-thank-you-very-much.  Often this snarls traffic, but no one minds or shouts obscenities. Very civilized.

Maybe the Brits are higher up Maslov’s hierarchy of needs than we are? 

We live on a fairly busy road.  There are pedestrians of all sorts:  elderly people with elderly dogs, university students, and children on their way to school.  Consider that there are bicyclists, double-decker busses, cars and that vicious old lady in her electric wheelchair all sharing the road, swerving around illegally parked cars and quinces that R tosses into the street.  No one cares that you are driving straight at ‘em.  Ever.  It is amazing.

Last October when I was back in the US, I was at an unfamiliar and unusual intersection.  I could go straight or turn left, soft right, or hard right.  I wanted to make a ‘soft’ right hand turn. I was the first car in my turn lane, so I couldn’t simply follow the car in front of me.  While waiting at the light, I took a moment to access the situation and verify exactly which lane I needed to turn into.  The light turned green and I drove, without hesitation, into a turning lane of oncoming traffic. 

If ever you are feeling like your life holds no thrills, I urge you to drive into oncoming traffic at a busy intersection in the US.  One moment I was tearing up to a John Denver song playing on satellite radio in the rental car and the next moment I was witnessing looks of horror on the faces of all the drivers I passed.  Their attempts to communicate my error were both animated and surprisingly easy to decipher. 

In one beat of my heart, I became very aware of every hair follicle on my head and neck and every sweat gland in my body.  I was alive!  I was awake! I was in need of fresh undergarments! 

By the grace of God there were no cars heading towards me and I was eventually able to swing into the proper lane.  Because there was so much traffic in the opposite direction, this took what seemed like miles.  I pulled over, parked the car and shook for about a half an hour.  And sometimes people wonder why coming home for visits can be stressful…

I’d just like to say that as frenetic as driving in England is, it suits me just fine.  Sure it is startling to see people reversing down a street at 30 mph, but they are only doing that as a courtesy to allow another driver to get through a blocked road.  You see, what inevitably happened is that Mrs. Smith was out clipping her roses when the vicar drove by and he stopped to congratulate Mrs. Smith on her daughter’s recent engagement.  As it does, a five-minute discussion ensued (date, dress, flowers, etc) and other drivers were forced to reverse or drive onto sidewalks to pass.  No road rage.  Everyone knows one day THEY’LL be the one who wants to talk with the vicar while he is passing down the street.  In this country you just need to leave plenty of time.  And if you don’t and you are late for an appointment, that’s fine, too.

Lastly, I’d like to point out the one thing the UK does take very seriously is speeding.  England has, last I counted, 5 trillion speed cameras.  They are everywhere, all knowing and without any sense of compassion.  Twice I have gotten a speeding ticket, once going a WHOPPING 4 mph over.  Between fines and points on your license, you pay dearly. Ask J.   J, is one ticket away from losing his license altogether because he has been caught by speed cameras so many times (please refer to my previous entry for further details on how I encourage him to slow down).

With love from England,

T-Ann

The Wrong Side of the Road, Part 1

Dear all,

The next few installments of T Time, will be dedicated to driving on the wrong side of the road, something I do frequently when I return to the US.

In the UK, you are able to get your license around your 18^th birthday.  As foreigners, we were allowed to legally drive on our US licenses for up to one year, so, of course, J and I drove for over TWO years before finally getting motivated to get our UK licenses.   All of our British friends offered encouragement and even J’s work friends joined in the fun.  He was offered ‘an incentive program’ whereby Human Resources took away the keys to his company car until he could produce a valid UK license.  We love the Human Resources Department.   They are always thinking up kooky things to keep us on our toes:  taking away car keys one week and forgetting to transfer J’s paycheck the next.  What jokesters. 

Like so many other worthwhile and wonderful things, procurement of a UK license takes time. A UK license is for life so they do not mess around when it comes to testing.  You are required to take the written Theory Test first, and then a couple months later, you take a driving test.  The written test is more difficult than you might imagine because, for one, speed limits are often not posted; you need to learn what the national speed limit is on every type of road.  Also, all the distances are in metric, which I have never bothered to learn.   But above all, the exam is tough because the employees at the Driving Standards Agency are just barking mad. 

Here are some sample questions:

1. You are checking your trailer tyres.  What is the legal minimum tread depth over the central three quarters of its breadth? 

2. Where may you overtake on a one-way street?

3. You are signaling to turn right in busy traffic.  How would you confirm your intention safely? 

4. Where would you see a contra-flow bus and cycle lane?

5. At puffin crossings, which light will not show to a driver?

6. How long will a Statutory Off Road Notification (SCORN) last for? (bad grammar, by the way)

7. There are no speed limit signs on the road.  How is a 30 mph limit indicated?

8. Powered vehicles, such as wheelchairs or scooters, used by disabled people have a maximum speed of?

9. Which three emergency services MIGHT have blue flashing beacons? 

10. You are waiting to emerge at a junction.  Your view is restricted by parked vehicles.  What can help you to see traffic on the road you are joining?

Just for the record, I got 100% on my Theory Test.  J did not, but you can bet I was very mature about the whole thing.  It isn’t about who got the better grade, it is just about being safe.    

You study for your written exam and while doing so you must get drivers training.  It isn’t enough that you have been driving for 25 or 30 years.  You will not pass without help.  You must hire a meek and mild man with thinning hair and loads of patience to re-teach you how to drive. 

The cornerstone of the UK driving test is reversing down a road and into a side street.  This is frowned upon in the US, but in the UK it is necessary to perform this maneuver nearly every time you get behind the wheel of a car, so it is a pretty important skill.  You will be tested on parallel parking.  If you so much as touch the curb, it is an automatic failure.  It’s considered loss of control. You will be taken down several different roads and you must know the speed limit of each.

It is worth noting that I passed the driving test on my first try.   For the sake of comparison ONLY, you may be interested to know that it took J THREE times.  I think it’s important you focus on J’s eventual success, not on his NUMEROUS failures.  As I said previously, it is all about safety, not about who is the better driver (me, obviously). 

I continue to be a resource for J whenever we travel together.  I’m like a walking, talking Theory Test Study Guide.  When I note that his driving isn’t at the 100% marker or I sense he is feeling too shy to ask for my driving advice (which I encourage), I like to help him by pointing out ways he could improve his driving skills.  Peppering him with facts from the theory books is very effective. 

If that doesn’t correct an unsafe situation, I engage a three-pronged approach wherein I first take the Lord’s name in vain, then use a strong and offensive swear word (depending on the extremity of the situation and how much time I have to get my point across, I might choose to combine these first two steps).  Lastly, I ask a very pointed, leading question in a cheerful, but firm voice.  It goes something like this, “Jesus H. Christ!  F**K!  Would you slow down?!” 

Often this technique works, though often enough we end up skidding off the road.  This method has the added benefit of greatly increasing our marital communication, thus killing two birds with one stone.  Lots of heartfelt and lively banter ensues.  Everyone wins. 

With love from England,

T-Ann 

P.S.  The answers to the questions above are:

1. 1.6 mm
2. Either on the right hand or the left hand
3. Arm signal (as if…)
4. On a one way street
5. Amber flashing (assuming you know the difference between a zebra, puffin, pelican and staggered crossing)
6. 12 months
7. Street lights
8. 8 mph (which I know for a fact is WRONG, because there is an old lady in our neighborhood who cruises in her wheelchair, doing about 40 mph in the rain while smoking, talking on her mobile phone and shouting vulgarities at anyone in her way)
9. Coast guard, bomb disposal, mountain rescue
10. Reflections of traffic in shop windows

 

  

You'll Wish You Were Me...

Dear all,

Why is it that some days life can be utter rubbish, others, a study in perfection?  Today is one of those splendid days when not only is it warm and sunny, but I am caught up with my laundry.  Perfection.

I was forced to do laundry around the clock this weekend because we were expecting a visit from our landlords who were invited by me to smell the bouquet of our latest home ‘glitch’.  We are suffering from the vexing problem of a basement that smells as if it is well past its Best Before date, not unlike the contents of a container of fish pie that has gone missing in the fridge for a few months.  I thought I’d extend an invitation to our landlords so they, too, could enjoy the pong (smell). 

The laundry was done simply to give the impression that I am not a lazy sloth.

I am well aware that others could look at my life in England and think, gosh, I wish WE could get a sweet deal like they did and leave these Frozen Red and Blue States for someplace a bit more civilized: a place with less snow, less SUVs…less Oprah.   Well, my friends, I am here to tell you life isn’t half bad on the other side of the pond when the sun shines and you have no laundry on the floor.  You should definitely come. 

I admit that part of the thrill at the moment, isn’t that the sun is shining, but has more to do with the fact that I have no laundry.  ‘What a loser,’ you are thinking to yourself.  Well, yes, of course, THAT is part of it, but mostly, I am just so happy I have an electrical dryer.  You know, the kind of dryer that you can’t fold up and tuck behind the door when company comes or the kind that isn’t hung in the back yard and doesn’t subject your neighbors to the sight of your ‘smalls’.  I mean a dryer with a plug.  The kind with a big drum that you put wet clothes into, press a button and they come out dry.   I mean the kind of dryer that dries your clothes even if you live in England and it rains 85% of the time.

My intention here is not to make you envious.  It is just that I simply cannot begin to tell you how this machine has revolutionized my life.  We no longer have laundry hanging all over the house on clotheshorses, in doorways and on the radiators.  Kitchen chairs are used for sitting, not drying laundry.  What it does to soften a towel cannot be described.  Brilliant!  

I had promised to keep my mouth closed about this luxury (which obviously I’m not) because more than one husband I know said he’d really catch it if his wife found out J had indulged me in such a luxury, but I can’t help it.  This dryer makes my heart sing.  I may have a fridge the size of a shoe rack, but, by God, I have an electric dryer.  I may start to write poetry…

We got the dryer months ago after discovering that there are dryers that do not need outside ventilation.  You just have to empty a water container, similar to a dehumidifier.  We got an electrician to pull power into one of our two closets and, bang, just like that, I had a dryer installed.  Like my washing machine, it can only handle 5 shirts at a time, but I don’t mind.  I treat it like a child:  filling it well beyond its capacity and pushing it far beyond its limits.  It likes that.

I’ve thought a lot about it and I’m pretty sure this dryer is the best thing that has ever happened to me.  If you don’t have one, you should really think about getting one.  Maybe for Christmas.  Certainly all the really cool people have them.  I hear that some people actually have a washer and a dryer IN THE SAME ROOM, but for sure, that’s an urban myth.

To celebrate this moment, the simultaneous event of both sun and no laundry, I think I’ll go shoe shopping.  Or read a book, if you are J and you are reading this.

With love from England,

T-Ann

 

 

 

 

Our Puritan Ideals

Dear all, 

When England threw out their religious zealots, these people set off with nothing but scratchy clothes on their backs, sensible shoes on their feet and lots of crazy assed ideas in their heads (dancing = bad, setting fire to people we don’t understand = good).  They headed towards a new land full of hope and promise, but, instead, landed in Plymouth, Mass.

A quick aside: did I ever tell you about the time we, along with my high school friend, Colleen, took the kids to the Living Pilgrim Museum in Plymouth?  It was the most hot and humid day in the history of mankind.  The museum has volunteers who dress up in woolen clothes like Pilgrims and bale hay and tend fires like Pilgrims did.  You must address these volunteers as Pilgrims NOT as tour guides.  For example, you can’t ask the guy baling hay why the Pilgrims baled hay.  You must ask, “Excuse me Farmer John, I noticed that you are baling hay with your ‘fiancé’ who happens to be about 40 years younger than you, you perv, and I was wondering…” Only then will they answer you. 

The museum also had a volunteer who was an honest to God Wampanoag (or something like that) Indian who was dressed, in all his chiseled glory, in nothing but a loin cloth, walking around, bending over.  He told sad stories of how much it sucked to be persecuted by the pilgrims to a small gathering of children around his feet, all the while his leg was resting on a log about two feet off the ground. 

For some reason, mostly because we were already giddy from asking lots of Pilgrims questions, this struck Colleen and me as very funny.  Not the stories, of course, but whole scene in general. We started with stifled laughter and a bit of poking, but it wasn’t long before we needed to excuse ourselves altogether.  As we pushed each other to get away, to rid our minds of this searing image, I took one last look back and the Indian turned to me. I could see his face…a close up…and one single tear running down his cheek. Or maybe I am confusing my Native American memories.. 

Anyway, what was my point?

So these pilgrims brought their ideas to a new land and with time and starvation, they evolved into a harsher people: the Puritans, which in Latin means:  if it feels good, you’re going to Hell.   Sometimes we forget that our great country is based on many Puritan, ideals such as:  controlling urges: good, clean houses: good, idle hands: bad, too many vacation days: VERY bad. 

England, on the other hand, is not based on these ideals.  They threw out the religious lunatics, but kept the fun people like Shakespeare, Benny Hill and the members of the Rolling Stones.  Their country is based on the time-honored ideals of sex and alcohol (but usually not in that order).

We moved to England and didn’t think this shift in values would affect us, but the longer we are here, the more adjusting we have to do.   Our parenting has to incorporate the norms of the British culture but still must fit in with our Midwestern values.  It hasn’t been easy. 

Everyone knows raising teenagers is difficult. Maybe you’ve raised teenagers or maybe you simply recall those complicated teenage years; years spent trying to ‘find’ yourself (you were probably towards the back of a dimly lit Denny’s parking lot) and longing for ‘truth’ (‘truth’ being so elusive at that age because your every move required an intricate web of lies so your parents didn’t know you were spending hours at a time towards the back of a dimly lit Denny’s parking lot).  

The legal age for drinking in the UK is 18 (about the time you get a drivers license) and alcohol is served to kids much younger than that in homes and in restaurants if the parents are present.  It isn’t irresponsible, it’s just is the way it is.  European.  And further to that, sex just isn’t the taboo it is in the US. 

For example, when M and S were 13, they were invited to a party of a girl who was still 12.  The parents were serving alcohol and the kids were invited to spend the night for a co-ed sleep over (a completely benign weekend activity here for every teenager…except ours). When I called the mother who was by all accounts lucid, (and bright, they just sent their oldest daughter off to Oxford), she was completely confused as to my concern.  Her response?  ‘Would you prefer if we serve LIGHT beer and wine, only?’ 

So when M and S were preparing to visit a friend in France for the week, I realized we had to have another serious dialog regarding alcohol and sex.  Additionally, I pulled M aside for a REAL heart to heart.  It went like this:

Me:  M, I don’t want you to have sex with Shawn while you’re in France.

M:  JEEZ, Mom, why do you think I’d do that?

Me:  Because she is a prettier version of Kirsten Dunst only with bigger boobs.  You’re 15.  Things happen.

M:  (Big grin comes over his face) Oh.  Yeah.

Me:  I mean it M.  I worry.

M:  God, Mom, will you PLEASE stop talking? 

And with that request, we let M and S travel to France completely on their own.   They had a wonderful time and there were no instances of any improprieties. 

At least that is what they are telling us.  We may find differently in a few years. 

With love from England, 

T-Ann

Wafer Thin Mint?

Dear all,

Monday, I spent the day with A in Cheltenham General Hospital.   You know me, always up for the sight of row and rows of beds and cracking/peeling paint in a hospital.  Although we have private health insurance, in an emergency you must go to NHS hospitals.  So, with A suffering acute pain, we headed to the hospital.  He had pneumonia.  

A had been sick on and off for the better part of a month.  He has lost weight and is looking even paler than his normal pasty self.  Poor guy, but when it came time to collect M and S from the airport after a trip to France, he was healthy enough to come along.

We waited at a Costa Coffee for their flight to arrive.  The Nicer of the Two Parents indulged A in a massive hot chocolate.  A gulped it down along with whipped cream AND marshmallows.  We were thrilled to have M and S back with us and we went out to dinner to celebrate their safe return and hear about their adventures in France.

Before dinner, The Nicer of the Two Parents ordered Aidan a fizzy fruit drink.  A slurped it down.  When dinnertime rolled around, A, who was seated next to aforementioned, Nicer of the Two Parents (and who wouldn’t want to be?), ordered himself a lemonade (7-Up). 

His sick tummy revolted. Three sips into that 7-Up and Aidan exploded like a scene out of Monty Python.

I’ll spare you the details, because, to be honest, words cannot do justice to this grand display of hot chocolate, purple juice, 7-Up and curly fries.  All the same, I will say that the restaurant became a temporary war zone with us grabbing chairs to use as shields as we ran for cover.

When Round One ended and A paused momentarily to reload, we got him out from behind the table and told him to run for the bathroom.  Desperate, he took off.  We were nearly there, actually just OUTSIDE THE BATHROOM, when an old lady cut us off, walking very slowly (freaking, Mr. Bean nightmare).  She turned and gave us a smug look, quite satisfied that she had prevented an impolite boy from running through a restaurant.  Imagine my pleasure, my pure joy and deep gladness something akin to a religious experience, when A blew for a SECOND time…this time right down the old cow’s backside.

With love from England,

T-Ann

Snow Days

Dear all,

Of all the many things I will miss when we eventually move back to the USA, there is no doubt I will miss the English winters.  The temps are relatively mild; I continue to walk everywhere.  The absence of forced air heat means my skin is not dried and itchy all season, my fingers don’t crack, and because there is moisture in the air, my hair remains compliant with the laws of gravity. 

Having said that, I understand that our winter weather has made the news back home.  The snow here has been laughable and, honestly, a little exhausting.  The United Kingdom cannot cope.  Here are a few examples of what life has been like this past week:

Last Tuesday, London came to a stand still, all buses and the Underground stopped.  They had about eight inches.  In Cheltenham, though, we got about two or three inches and most people did not show up for school or work.  It melted the following day.

Thursday and Friday, when we got four inches of snow, Jim could not go to work.  The motorway was impassable both Thursday and Friday.  More than half the children did not show up for school.  Our lucky kids walked to school.

Our postman could not deliver mail (his bike couldn’t make it in the snow).  The grocery store shelves were bare.  Friday, Jim and I took advantage of the additional day off and trudged to our favorite café.  The vegetables couldn’t be delivered.  Neither could the wine (it’s February…the detox is over).  

Saturday morning (the children go to school on Saturdays), I kept the children home until the mid morning thaw because it was too dangerous to walk on the sidewalks.  Drivers, unable to control their cars, were sliding up onto the sidewalks.  Don’t forget, this is FOUR inches of snow!

Everyone it seems, even those rascals who would normally be committing knife crimes (very popular in the UK), was out playing in the snow.  I have never seen so many snowmen.  There were a few memorable ones, but my favorite was at a nearby pub.  There was a snowman, quite lifelike, sitting on a chair, arm resting on a café table, with his hand around a full Guinness.  At the senior school, there was a fabulous polar bear made of snow. 

Sadly, irreverent prep school miscreants (their mothers should be ashamed) had to ruin the festive nature of the snow by building an enormous replica of, umm…Wedding Tackle.  Meat and Two Veg.  You know…male bits.  They were smart enough to erect (so to speak) this towering Man Garden away from the school buildings, further down the cricket and rugby pitches (supervising children is not one of the British prep school’s strong points).  The Willy went without notice for a satisfying amount of time (a day!), in full view of passing cars, until the administration from Cheltenham General Hospital, which is directly across the street, called Cheltenham College’s administration to notify them of the misconduct.   Also to tell them that the hospital’s patients were beginning to complain.  

As you can imagine, there was a surge of school pride.  The prank will live in boarding school infamy.

Sunday, a classmate of A’s went sledding (or sledging, as they say here) with her father.  They collided with another sled (sledge) and the father broke his back in TWO places.

To say that the British cannot handle snow is an understatement.

A week later, the snowmen look like ET’s Mini-Me, the snowdrops are blooming once again and the daffodils are pushing up.  People have already begun planting pansies in window boxes and there is daylight at 6:00 pm.  We may not get a warm summer, but in February when the flowers are promising to bloom, I never seem to mind.

With love from England, 

T-Ann

It's Official

Dear all, 

We are here until the summer of 2012. 

Overall, we have handled this news well, especially those of us (M and A) who never wanted to leave.   The rest of us, who are severely lacking in sun exposure, are trying to warm to the idea. 

In this economic climate, we are grateful for J’s job and are well aware that we live in one of the most beautiful parts of the world.  We live in a Kingdom, for God’s sake!  It’s the stuff of fairy tales.  Sort of.  Except the bit about the rain, the damp cold, the lack of summers, the drafty house, the cost of living, the lack of family and old friends, having to remember that the word ‘pants’ means ‘underpants’ and the fact that the British eat faggots and spotted dick (although not at the same time-spotted dick is for pudding). 

Additionally, it is a country that has offensive names for towns such as Penistone and Crapstone.  Or worse yet, roads called Butt Hole Road (honestly), Crotch Crescent (my favorite) and Slutshole Lane (?).  On the London Underground, I smile a sophomoric grin when the recorded voice announces ‘NOW APPROACHING SHEPHERD’S BUSH’.  ‘Yuck,’ I always think to myself, ‘is THAT what I smell?’

Right.  Scratch that.  Those are actually examples of why I LOVE this quirky country.    

I must admit that M’s recent mumble about returning to the US for college made my heart swing.  Two additional years in England, I worry, will make the twins more settled (they will finish their secondary education here) and want to go to university here. University leads to jobs or marriages (or both) in England.  That means we are possibly left with only R and A in the USA to care for us in our old age.  R is unlikely to be a decent carer (unless we make it extremely easy and very lucrative) and A, by his own admission, wishes he had a different mom, one who didn’t say ‘no’ all the time, so, as a companion in our old age, he isn’t looking too promising, either. 

I am easing myself back into English life from which I had started to detach.  I have stopped looking at the pictures of our new house back home on a daily (hourly) basis.  I, like everyone else in Cheltenham, am simply biding my time doing laundry and talking about the weather until Champagne Season begins (even now I glance at my watch, wondering how much longer I have to wait).   

In the mean time, I might indulge myself by putting on some Bob Seger (Roll Me Away is one of the all time best lets–get-the-Hell-out-of-here songs) and daydreaming about my homeland.

With love from England,

T-Ann

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