The last white Christmas that I remember in England was about 30 years ago. My grandmother had recently died and so it was imperative that Grandad spend Christmas with us, as it was to be his first without her. I was little and I remember how the snow came down, fine and yet thick at the same time. It made it difficult to see into the distance. The white-out effect in full force. My dad left with my brother to make the drive into the east end of London. The roads were empty, so while the the snow was pretty heavy, he could slowly drive to London. meanwhile, my sister, my Mum, and I walked to our corner sweet shop. I remember holding their hands, walking home, with the snow stinging my eyes, and making my little hands so cold that I cried. I was worried about my dad and brother getting home safely. My sister tried to cheer me up ny promising that when we arrived home, we would go searching for Christmas present. (We never really did...I think both of us hated the idea of actually finding out what your surprise was before the big day.) My bother and Dad made it home,of course, and as ever -and regardless of his loss- Christmas really felt like it had started when Grandad arrived.
Now, thirty years later, we are stuck in Chicago, because, for the second December running, Heathrow cannot cope with the snow that has recently fallen on London. I know that living outside of Chicago and so close to O'hare, we are used to heavy snowfalls and we are far more prepared to clear it. I'm just amazed at the complete ineptness of an major international airport.
So, we sit and we wait for a flight that doesn't arrive until lunchtime on Christmas Eve. And while I am thankful for the fact that we arrive on Christmas eve and not after, I can't help feeling cheated of time. Time with my parents, time with my sister and her family, and time with friends. Time, that if I lived around the corner from them, I may take for granted. Instead, I am grappling for more....more time, more days, more visits. It's running out. The boys get older, as do my parents. I suppose one day, we'll look back, fondly perhaps, on the Christmas that we got stuck in snowy Chicago, while the usually, rainy, moderate climate in England changed to Arctic temperates and aligned with our weather. But not today, not now. Not for a long time.

On Hephzibah

Yesterday morning, I was invited to a holiday tea at the Hephzibah Children’s Associaton. I had always wondered exactly what Hephzibah is, especially since you hear about them in OP all the time. The organization runs all the after-school programs in the schools here. I knew it was some kind of group home and that it was involved with fostering and/or adopting children. However, I was not really prepared for what Hephzibah does and who it serves. It is a completely amazing organization. First, it is in a beautiful old building by the El tracks. And while the basement was built out, the original design (by women in the OP) of an H is still apparent. There is room for 10 children in the upstairs of the home. These children may stay for a few years....they are the residents of Hephzibah and have been victims of emotional and physical abuse. The group home tries to provide a safe, structured environment with therapy so that the children can learn how to trust and heal. Down in the basement is a diagnostic treatment center, that takes in children who have been abused, neglected, or with behavioral or emotional disorders. This is a short-term group home. This part of the home provides medical and psychological evaluation and treatment. What is striking is that it doesn’t look like a group home…I mean, not like the ones I had envisioned. (This was no Annie type place!) Each bedroom was muraled in the style of a children’s book or film - Curious George, Cars, Corduroy, The Little Engine That Could, and the Cat in the Hat. They were truly beautiful. A cook at the home had painted them all. Since PREP is collecting donations for the home this year and the morning was a holiday tea, we talked a lot about Christmas at Hephzibah. The children often come to the home with no idea who Santa is. Or they don’t believe that they will receive any Christmas presents. Christmas morning sounds like a magical morning since there are donations to the home so that every child receives something. I kept thinking about how many toys my children will receive. While I feel truly thankful my children will not have to experience what any of the children at Hephzibah go through, it is absolutely heartbreaking that there is any child on this earth that has to go through the emotional and physical pain that the Hephzibah kids do. They all have their photo on the wall at the entrance, so it feels more like home. You gaze at these kids and there is nothing on their face that shows what they have been through. Maybe I am just inexperienced at looking closely in a child’s face that has been in a terrible situation. But really, they look like the kids I see in the neighborhood. This felt almost more heartbreaking because there is no way of knowing what the children have seen or experienced. One of the most impressive things about Hephzibah is that they work really, really hard to try to get the children back with their families. They offer support for parents who are also struggling with addictions or psychological problems. This, I thought was amazing, because they do it without judgment. I think that would be unbelievably hard. Lord knows parents all tend to judge each other a wee bit and in fairly normal situations! I don’t know…I was deeply moved by the organization. I thought about it all day yesterday. So, I thought I write about it and I have put the link to their website over on the side….check it out.

On partnership

Kyle and I have got married young. (23 to be exact.)We have no regrets. It's not like there was anyone else. But it is kind of funny when I hear of a kid getting married right out of college, and my first reaction is "really? are you sure? I mean...you're only 22 0r 23..." I guess we were kids. But one of us had moved across the world to do be with the other one. And that other one had been brave enough to ask her to. So, recently I had a thought as the possibility of Kyle being on trial for the two weeks loomed. Do I dread him being gone because I just got too damn dependent on him? I mean, I never did the live on your own thing. I kind of did my last year of college, but it was in a dorm type arrangements, where I ended up knowing all the other students anyway. So it doesn't really count. I have never functioned as an adult without him. That frightens me. For many reasons and the primary one being that terrible thought...what would I do if something happened to.....? We're just not going to go there today. (Or anytime in the near future I hope.) The daft thing is that when he's not around, I cope fine. I'm organized, I make good decisions (usually), I moved country for dammits sake. But when he's leaving, I fall to pieces. A very good friend, who is adapt at seeing silver linings to clouds, has this perfect lining for me; my apprehension shows that Kyle and I have a good partnership. She pointed out that it would be way worse if I didn't give a shit he was leaving. "Bon voyage kid...see you in a couple of weeks!" With not a thought or care in the world. Let alone the kind of thoughts and cares that usually take on the shape of "oh fuck,,,what do I do if someone gets sick in the night (I hate puke), and how will I get so and so to skating while the baby naps? Or how do I pick someone up when we are all (cause there's no Kyle) present to organize the Christmas pageant rehearsal at church for the pre-school religious education program I am co-chairing this year..." (Yes, I am the church lady.) Did I mention the class the finally ends in the middle of all this chaos, so there's a huge paper due?! Those types of thoughts invade my head, settle in with a suitcase, and don't leave until Kyle gets back.

But, can the idea of a good partnership mask the real issue here? That I am supposed to cope by myself. Women before me have, and women after me will continue to do so. So what's wrong with me? Sometimes I think I lack the American can-do spirit. But what if that attitude can create rifts between couples.....like you end up not needing your partner. Cause you are so good at coping without them. I don't want to be like that! I just want to be cool as a cucumber. "Sure, I can handle it honey. Go...I'll miss you something awful, but we'll be fine...it'll be fine." I want to know that when the shit (or the in-my-head-fear puke) hits the fan, I'll be totally OK. I mean, I've done this before. With a far younger baby than we have now. And two older kids....who actually, are really, really helpful with the aforementioned baby/toddler. It's just the thought of it. I think the thought of it is more frightening than the reality. Because reality, as ever, just sets in and life goes on.
So, I suppose I don't know if it's me being a complete girl or if it's that Kyle and I are a good team. If I think it's the former, then I feel like a complete loser. If I think it's the latter, I feel like a complete loser. (Yes, I know that was supposed to be the silver lining...but I still buy into that I should be able to do it all -and more- attitude.) The other option of course is to get out of the rat race, buy a farm somewhere in the middle of nowhere and have cows and corn to worry about instead of trials.

On Thanksgiving

What a great holiday. One that I am perfectly comfortable with adopting. One that still has managed to retain the true spirit of the actual holiday without being tainted by commercialism. (Unless you count the butter that is carved into the shape of a turkey....but I suppose that more novelty than commercialism?) It's a perfect way to start the holiday season, when much of the spirit of the actual holiday gets lost in the whirlwind of events and retail stress. But I digress....
What makes me smile (or on meaner days, wonder how stupid a person could actually be), is when people ask if England has Thanksgiving. Hmmmm. Lets just take a moment to let that question sink in. Does England have Thanksgiving? (Silence.)
On a good day, I smile and say no, we don't (poor us right?), we just have Harvest festival in September (What's that? Good question. Goggle it.) On meaner days, what I really want to say is (ear muffs now) "WTF?? Are you kidding me? Did you not pay attention in school? Even I know the history of thanksgiving and I'm a f&*#ing immigrant...."and so on and so forth.
So, I have been thinking about why people ask the question in the first place. I think it's for a few reasons, and please, descendants of the May Flower, feel free to help me out.
First, you LOVE thanksgiving so much, you can't envisage a place where the great Turkey Day doesn't exist. I mean, what do English people do the on the last Thursday in November? No turkey? (Not until Christmas) No football ? (Just the real kind where we kick the ball - football?) No pumpkin pie? (Again, no....but just wait until Christmas...our boozy desserts will knock your socks off!) Second, the histories of our two countries are so intertwined that at times maybe it's hard to know who keeps what sacred and who celebrates what. But funnily, no one seems to ask if we celebrate the Fourth of July. And both holidays have similar roots...the desire to the escape persecution and the shackles of the British monarchy. Is the violent aspect of the War of Indepence that makes the reasons for the holiday more obvious? Or is it that the justifications for that war are reiterated again and again? And rightly so. While the emphais in the Thanksgiving story semes to be the struggle of the pilgrims, the poverty and near-death during a harsh winter in an unknown land, the help and support of the native people, and the beginnings of a country that embraces freedom of worship and speech. Third, and this is perhaps the most cynical of the three ideas - that America is still a wee bit isolationist. Just a bit. I mean, I can understand why...Europe is far away. Why would you know what goes on in November in a tiny little, damp island? America is SO damn big, that it's hard to keep straight on what's going on in twenty five of the states, let alone all fifty....so no hope for the rest of the world. Unless you are talking Royal weddings. Then you guys are more updated than I am.
Anyway, I guess the question just tickles me. I am sure that I sound obnoxious for even giggling about it. I mean, British people wouldn't know, for example, why Americans even celebrate Thanksgiving. (A little side-trip here...in English education, they seem to gloss over the whole period in history where Britain started to loose British citizens to the colonies. They actually omit the whole period of enlightenment - unless you go to university - and skip right from one Golden Age (the Elizabethans) to another; the Victorians. Strange that. Denial perhaps?)
Regardless, I shall happily brine, roast, and serve my turkey for my American family tomorrow. The boys and I will hang our homemade Thanksgiving decorations. And we will be truly thankful for family, friends, and life itself.

Grad school and families

In my experience, grad school and young families don't mix so well.
I can get to grad school. I can arrange for a babysitter, get all the kids fed, and get out of the door with the kitchen cleaned up. I can even make sure that if JP has soccer while I'm in class (Monday night class only. Not the Thursday one. No soccer practice twice a week. No way.), he has his kit ready to go, water bottle, snacks for the little guys at the park, and directions for the babysitter. I finally (after doing this masters for several years) worked out that my very good friend and mentor was right. I need extra study time. Despite having to pay for it. It is essential to prevent out family from falling apart. So, now I have study time carved into the week. And the weekends, if the schedule (soccer games times-two, ice-skating, church...) allows. What I cannot do is clinicals, interviews, and constant on-line discussions. Remember when university meant lectures, papers, and reading? No observations (hard to do in philosophy), no clinicals and curriculum development, and no blackboard postings on-line! The hardest thing about my undergrad was the fact that every ten weeks, for each class we had to produce a twenty page paper. At least, that seemed really hard at the time...! I mean, when your life revolves around socializing, library, student union bar, library, student meals, library, and writing fervently to that damn Yankee, 4 twenty page papers seemed frightening. Oh and the fact that my first year of work in undergrad was all handwritten? Amazing.
Fortunately my professor and advisor raised three children while she completed her masters degree and doctorate. But, as she herself pointed out, she didn't have a two year old. I don't think it matters too much how old the kids are. But the little guy makes it impossible to study, write, read, or post while he is awake. And he's totally worth all the raging thoughts about what is due when. But the fact remains, there is a whole lot of juggling going on.
The worrying thing is that when I'm finished (next May??!!), I don't know exactly what my future holds. Teacher? Director? Consultant? Stay-at-home mom? One thing is for certain, those three little men that keep me SO busy and make it harder to finish, will still be here. With their smiles, giggles, dirty fingernails, and pranks (Charlie or JP, it's unclear who, taped the toilet seat down one night), and they'll still look to me for hugs, snacks, stories, and kisses. Although they are only at night when JP is certain that no one can see....

Kyler turned two this week. I know it's cliched to say, I can't believe where the time went, blah, blah, blah. But let's face it, it's true. Two years ago, I was 9 months pregnant, chasing JP across the school field. He was struggling with all day school and in the mornings would take off across the field behind the black top. What a picture that must have been...my running, holding my belly, Charlie behind me, JP tearing away.
I remember clearly the day we went to the hospital. It was a beautiful September day, and we had been at JP's soccer game in the morning, and then to lunch at Al's grill. All I wanted to eat was french fries and chicken noodle soup. (The soup was loaded with fat, homemade noodles.) I think my body must have been gearing up for something by stocking me up on carbs.
After lunch I had one of those experiences when you are told by your ob gyn to go down to the hospital, just to check stuff out... but you manage convince yourself that whatever is going on a false alarm, and you'll be back home again in no time. I think you do it so you're not disappointed when you are sent home! I wasn't sent home. We had the baby. While my Mum flew over the ocean that night to stay with us, Kyler Matthew was born.
Now, when September rolls around, and the leaves start to turn here and there, I feel like Mum should be here. She stayed for almost 6 weeks in the Midwest, spending a couple of weeks with my brother. But it was the first time that she got to see one of my baby's on the very day they were born. when my Dad arrived a couple of weeks later, it was also, the soonest he had seen one our children. Those 6 weeks were priceless. There is something magical when you bring a newborn home. Despite the physical exhaustion, the fuzzy head from lack of sleep, and a sore body, time feels like it stands still. Having the big boys hold their new baby brother on the sofa will forever be imprinted in my memories. And having my Mum insist that I take a bath every night, with bubbles that she had brought from Boots in England, again, will be imprinted in my mind. So, the two years flew past, and Kyler is still a happy, happy little boy. (Some things never change!) All that's missing is Mum and Dad.

RIP David Beckham (the fish, not the player...)

The boys fish died today. After a frantic evening last night of trying to revive the half-starved fish, David Beckham gave up the fight this afternoon. I did point put that we may learn a lesson from putting the fish in their bedroom and then forgetting to feed him for a week? JP was close to hysterical last night...so I can't imagine our afternoon when he gets back from school and the fish is belly-up. I know it's important for them to see the cycle of life. So, I think I have to leave the fish in the tank (gross...the tank is next to my coffee pot that is going on momentarily so I have any hope of finishing a reading assignment for class) and have them help me bury him. The urge to swiftly fish him out and flush down the you-know-what is terribly tempting. But, I think they will be more upset if he is completely gone when they get home. After our dog Addison died last Spring, they did have questions about where she went. The doggy-heaven topic was visited and I did say that yes, I think she is somewhere watching us...but fish? Maybe a little box buried in the garden will suffice. I honestly don't know if I can stretch doggy heaven to include beta fish. Maybe, since fish aren't quite so personable and don't attach themselves to you or your kids (hence forgetting to feed him for a week) those kind of soul-searching (literally) questions won't come up.
They have Religious Ed this evening. I know that JP will try to get out of it by stating that he absolutely cannot go post fish-funeral. Kyle told me to tell him that thinking about God and talking about it in class may actually help. I thought that was a grand idea. JP doesn't like RE anyway, so it's always tricky to get him enthusiastic about going. Maybe presenting it as therapeutic will work? We'll see. Otherwise, here I come PetCo, because I am sure the next fish is right around the corner....

Sunday Roast Dinners

Today I wish I were going to my Mum's for a big, Sunday Roast Dinner. Despite the fact that here it hit 90 degrees today, a roast chicken and crispy roast potatoes that are deliciously fluffy inside sound fantastic. (Even though it would turn the temp up in your house to maybe 100 degrees....no matter!) I grew up with everyone sitting down on a Sunday for my Mum's Roast Dinner. The format was pretty the same, with these variables; what type of joint of meat (or bird), whether we ate at 1pm or 5:30 pm (I didn't like 1pm...we weren't Victorian?!), and what was going to be for pudding (dessert). It tied us down to the day in a completely comforting way, although now, with our busy lives, I don't know how I could be tied down to just one, glorious meal.
In the summer if it was hot, (hot is open for interpretation - not usually above 78 degrees) we would roast the meat anyway (you have to, it's Sunday) but serve it with salad instead. I loved that too. I loved all the sides of crunchy, salad vegetables. And in true British fashion, it was not a chicken salad where everything is tossed together in a delectable dressing. No. It was slices of cold roast chicken and lettuce, slices of cucumbers, quarters of red tomatoes, grated carrot, and kidney beans adorning the plate next to the chicken. Then, a little Heinz salad cream (kind of like mayo, but runnier, yellower, and tangier) may be drizzled on your plate. It was years in my family before my sister had the fantastic idea of making a french vinaigrette. Even then, I eyed it suspiciously and went right back to pouring my salad cream. If we were really lucky, and there had been time, we might get hard boiled eggs too. That was a good Sunday.
Every winter, I try to replicate my best memories of Sunday Roast Dinners. There were many obstacles in the New World. It took time to find the right potatoes. (You can't get King Edward or Desiree spuds here?!) The closest is a russet, but only because it is the least waxy kind this side of the Atlantic. Then, I had to track down English gravy. (I don't make it from the pan juices. Only on Thanksgiving!) Yorkshire puddings (popovers) were another challenge. Especially because I had two variations in my head that Mum always told us about; the large, kind of flat, thick pancake-y kind that one of my grandmothers made and the lighter, individual, puffy kind that the other grandmother made. What a dichotomy Mum must have been in....whose Yorkshire pudding do make for your family? Your mum's? Or your mother-in-laws??!! (Depends on whose coming to dinner I suppose.) One of my nephews when he was very little, renamed Yorkshire puddings "milksheds". And to this day no-one knows why. I kind of like the name milksheds more. My children love milksheds (popovers). In fact, that was the first thing they would eat when I would finally make a roast and got everyone sitting down on cold, snowy Chicago nights. It took years for them to eat a roast potato. (Still can't figure that one out.) What a failure I felt. All English children love roast dinner. But apparently half-English children do not. What had I done wrong? Maybe not feeding it to them every Sunday, come rain or come shine for their entire lives thus far?! Possibly. I'll try to work on that this year. Last winter I discovered the baby loved roast pots. At last! Victory! Now if I could just get him to eat the meat, stuffing, and gravy....
While I type this, my English family are getting ready to turn in for the night. What's left of their Roast Dinner is minuscule. Maybe a bit of cold meat. A roast pot or two. Meanwhile, the PG Tips tea that I just made tasted horrible (the coffee pot is on instead) and I am excited to go to get some yummy BBQ with the boys later. It's not the Roast Dinner I've been dreaming of. But this is America after all. And here, anything goes. Even on Sundays.

Kyle and I have been married for 13 years tomorrow. So, last night, he surprised me by organizing a babysitter and taking me out to dinner. All I was told was to be ready by six o'clock with a pretty dress.... A fancy, black car came to pick me up and bring me downtown to a beautiful, French looking hotel (the Elysian) on Walton. I had the most fantastic gin and tonic made with house tonic! Yes, they can make tonic, by steeping whatever ingredients make the base of tonic like steeping tea (and it looked like tea too), and adding grapefruit zest. Soda water created effervescence and mixed with Hendricks Gin it tasted like a summers day....
We ate in the new restaurant in the hotel - Ria. ria's decor was 2010 meets Mad Men. There was something 1960's about the furnishing and art work. But the colours were platinum, gold and silver. I half expected men sitting in the cozy chairs, smoking with thin ties and skinny suit pants. Beside there should have been women whose hair were piled on their heads with fabulous Betty Draper dresses on.
Anyway. The food. It was seafood heavy, which is unfortunate for the woman who doesn't eat seafood! But, it made me try things that normally I would not. Like foie gras. Which, I still feel kind of guilty about. I mean I know it's legal and everything now, but I have to go with Charlie Trotter on this one. I really worry that the bird was just overfed and fattened up, just so someone can grab their liver. But it's done now and the foie gras came like a pate but with a chicken consomme on top. It had roasted shallots, cherries, a beautiful yellow, sweet, sweet tomato that had been quarted with no seeds! (I almost couldn't figure out what it was...) So, I ate it (not all of it, it's extremely rich...no surprise there). Oh, and the amuse-bouche was a chilled potato gelee almost, topped with a watercress one. It was amazing and it looked like a little turtle.
Dinner was tricky. Because my choices were between guinea fowl galantine or dry aged rib-eye with bone marrow. Thankfully, Kyle ordered the rib eye, so I could view the marrow from a distance. (There were many questions for the waiter...including myself telling him exactly what I think of when someone says bone marrow. It's not pretty. But of course the restaurant scopes it out, cleans the bone, makes a custard with the marrow and pipes it back into the bone. It still looked like a dog bone though....)
The guinea fowl was delicious and it was served on a potato puree with English peas. Yum! My only complaint was that it was coved with shavings of black truffle. (Did you know that Australia grows truffles now? Yep. they took the seeds or spores from France and hey presto. Aussie truffles.) But I made a discovery. And it is that I don't actually care for truffles. (Unless Australian ones are just not as good as French ones.) I just dont get the appeal. In fact, I felt bad about doing this, but I pushed the shavings to the side and hide them under the slice of galantine that I couldn't finish! So, clearly I am not cut out for fancy cuisine. I don't eat fish, lobster, crab, mussels, or veal sweetbreads and I don't care for foie gras or truffles! Lucky Kyle. My taste is cheap! Maybe unlucky Kyle because although I don't need fancy food as a rule, we did order lots of booze (a beautiful sparkling rose and fantastic grenache, shiraz, mataro blend from Australia's barossa valley). My dessert? A brown butter hazelnut cake, broken into three pieces with halved blackberries and peachs served three ways - poached, brunoise (small dice) and a slice of dried peach. Oh and it was served with a perfectly soft scoop of crean cheese ice-cream. Yum! It was heaven. All of it - heaven. We had so much fun. Partly because Kyle thought he should ask out waiter why the restaurant was so quiet! Ha ha. Luckily the guy didn't seem to mind and we promised him we would tell everyone about how delicious the whole experience was.
So, 13 years ago we were on our way to Lou Malnati's pizzeria for our rehearsal dinner. And I LOVE that kind of food too! (Again, lucky for Kyle.)

I am a huge fan of the AMC series Mad Men. I was;t always. In fact I didn't start watching it until the 3rd season. I had some catching up to do. As always with period pieces (can we say that? I mean, I know it's not Bronte or Austen, but it's historical!) I am absolutely fascinated. The clothes, the attitudes, the stereotypes, the clothes, the politics, the beliefs, and did I mention the clothes? I have read some articles about the show, the most recent one in the Style section of the New York Times on Sunday. The premise of the article seemed to be about our generation's fascination with the show. The idea being that the show was set in a time where adults had fun, which apparently is contrary to how adults are acting now. (Perhaps only white, middle and upper class readers of the New York Times?) The article states that while we are so intent on eating well, drinking moderately, and staying monogamous, we are actually missing out on all those deviant behaviors that apparently characterized the sixties. Here's the thing - I don't want to have extramarital affairs. I don't want my husband to. (Obvious I know, but I thought I should mention them.) I also don't want to eat chicken salad on Ritz crackers for dinner, and I definitely don't want to feel like I do or do not (as the case may be) "earn my keep" by being some one's pretty wife. The clothes....well, you can figure out that one. The drinking? Afternoon cocktails, while sound delicious, I am a little uncomfortable with. I don't know if I need my boys to know how to mix my cocktails. And I love my wine....I could drink a glass every night ( did I say a glass of wine? )I could drink whiskey too. Martinis? Delic. Gin and tonics? Heaven. But I am also aware that all these drinks, out of moderation, have consequences. Which is, of course, exactly what the article was griping about. Except. Except I am curious to know how many adults health from that swinging generation, suffered. And the kind of fun that I may be missing out on doesn't actually sound that fun. (Except those clothes...)
I admit I yell at my kids. (In fact while I had bronchitis the last couple of weeks, my doctor and I laughed about the fact that yelling at my children was a really bad idea and could produce damage to my vocal chords!) I struggle with feeling at times, a Bad Mother. I struggle with staying at home. And yet, I still can;t bring myself to just arbirally yell at them to get upstairs. Or watch TV. Or, better yet, as Betty Draper did, accuse my child of, when their grandparent passed away, acting like a baby about it. Thus, I may be a more troubled mother. I may overthink everything (oh, alright, I do over think everything) and I may allow my kids too much input at times. But good lord, I hope that I never make them feel 2 inches tall for having a normal emotion with regard to the death of a loved one. Or, have them measure out a perfect g & t and then stir it with their finger.
You may ask, why the heck do I care about this Mad Men topic and why is it so important to me that I chose to blog about it? Well...because my family drama is not up for discussion. And, if the New York Times of Sunday can run two articles about the new season of Mad Men in one month....then, dammit, the topic deserves some examination. (And I didn't even touch the feminist aspect of the series/era. Or lack of it.)

On taut and tense

I just read an interesting op-ed in the NY times - recommended by my most excellent friend - about the possibility of a female Viagra. It's a longish article and all very fascinating (No sex please, we're middle class), but the part that truly stuck out to me was about how American actresses have "desexualized" themselves. Rather than having voluptuous bodies, (think Beyonce), they chose 'efficient....sterilized athleticism" instead. As the author cites, Madonna has become scrawny and bourgeois, versus her more curvy look back in the '80's. What also struck me was the description of these women as "taut and over tense". I got to wondering....why would you want to look like that? (Why do I worry that I don't?) I mean, we all apparently feel taut and over tense, but not because our Pilate's instructor got us so lean or our private chef prepared so much grilled fish and bok choy. No, I am tense and taut because I think our lives are on speed. I keep trying to work out if all women have felt like this for years and years....or if we are truly trading achievement for ourselves (and our children, if we have them), for enjoyment, pleasure, and time spent soaking up the world, instead of trying to bend it to fit our busy schedules. I want to stop. I want to get out of that rat race. I want my family to be able to. But I don't know what the alternative is. Not taking up pilates and elimating all fun foods apparently. All that would happen then is what I felt inside would be written all over me...! Oh, just without the boob job.

I went to a charity function downtown last night. I have to admit that I was a little nervous, since last year the crowd was distinctly younger than yours truly. (I was only 35 last year, but being post-baby made me feel like a decade was an eternity.) I decided to forgo the shorter, admittedly more fun sundress, for a longer, more classic style. I couldn't face being around 25 year olds in short dresses all the while being the 36 year old in a short dress. However, I had a pleasant surprise. The younger crowd were not all that. (This blog is not completely superficial.) I mean, there were some short dresses. Some tight dresses. And some short all-in-one shorts outfits. (Very Carrie Bradshaw, but definitely not Sarah Jessica Parker in them.) We had gone with some very dear friends of ours. Of these friends, a lot of them we just don't see enough, and those we do see, we could always see more of, in my opinion. I just kept thinking how the women that I were with are all, in their own way completely wonderful, all over 30, and fabulous.
The other thought that struck me as I watched the chippies gyrating, desperately trying to impress the boys they were with, and barely being able to bend over without the whole city of Chicago seeing their knickers (maybe they don't wear any these days?), I thought how happy I am not to be 25 anymore. There are so many reasons why. But in particular because recently, I have felt like my over -thinking has taken on a whole new level....to the point where I feel a little crazy sometimes. I have felt like I don't have a minute to myself (this is true) and while I love my boys, the warnings and raised eyebrows I got when people found out I had three of the little buggers have now become reality. But still, after last night, I wouldn't trade it for the world. While my life is a little more chaotic, messy, and downright insane at times, it is precious. All the goofy things that I worry about, that those young women probably have no clue about, are not glamorous or trendy, they are in fact cliched. But the source of those worries are irreplaceable. I may not be 25 anymore but I have three amazing boys who make me laugh and smile at least ten times a day. They help bring a richness to my life that wasn't there before. (Don't get me wrong, I also look forward to the day when they are all off to college and I could go and get cocktails with my husband....alone!)

On Grandad Self and Marmalade

I found Dundee marmalade at Trader Joe's. I made toast sliced from fresh bread, I smeared some Irish butter on it, and then thickly spread the marmalade on top....and I was in heaven. Toast and marmalade is, I think a very British thing. I missed it like crazy when I first lived here. Fortunately, like so many other things, I can get marmalade here and I don;t have to wait for my parents to bring it over. marmalade reminds me of Paddington Bear, a wonderful character in a children's story, who is found at Paddington station in London, taken home by a loving family, and who happens to keep marmalade sandwiches under his hat. You know, emergencies might arise, and a marmalade sarnie could be just the thing.
But most of all, marmalade toast makes me think of my grandad. Grandad Self (my dad's father) was an old East Londoner through and through. He had a thick London accent and knew cockney rhyming slang, which would keep me entertained for hours. (Apples and pears; stairs, "I'm going up the apples." Butchers hook;look, "I'll go take a butchers." Syrup of figs; wigs, "that blokes wearing a syrup!") Anyway, Grandad was the youngest of 7 or maybe more kids and was born in 1909. The only photo I ever saw of him as a baby was one where he wore a dress (i guess they used to?), but as a little girl, I thought that was bloody hilarious. Grandad had wonderful stories to tell. About going to school, the three "R's', rulers rapped on knuckles, and how young he was when he didn;t go to school anymore! But the best stories I ever heard, and the ones that have stuck with me, where ones about his wife (my Nan). Violet was the oldest of 7 or so kids, and was out walking one afternoon with her sister, Lil. They bumped into my Grandad (John) and his brother. (Percy maybe?) Grandad takes one look at Violet and decides he wants to ask her out. (Did I mention Grandad was a bit cocky?) So, he does, and they start courting. After two weeks, two weeks, my Nan asks my Grandad, "John, do you want to see me again?" And John replies, "See you? I want to marry you...." So they got married (I remember that photo too. My Nan with one of those really long, straight veils pre- World War 2) with none of my Grandad's family there. He had fallen out with them, over the family business, which was a furniture moving company. Grandad has sold the moving truck (I think to have extra money to start married life maybe?) without asking his brothers....they had a big fight. grandad wouldn't admit he was wrong, so his family didn't come to the wedding. (Did I mention the Self's were stubborn?) Anyway, my grandparents adored each other. During the War, Grandad was a mechanic on the army trucks. He was based in London for a time, and all the men were under strict orders not to leave the base. Well, my nan and my Dad (who was little), had stayed in London during the war, so my Grandad just leaves the base without permission and goes to see them in secret. He told me that nothing could keep him away from seeing his wife and only son. Of course he got caught, but I remember him telling me the story and chuckling the whole time, as he remembered his punishment (cleaning offices at night on the base) and how he managed to talk some other bloke into doing it for him. (Did I mention that John was very rascally?) Grandad had all kinds of stories about what he used to get up to and I was a willing listener. I used to badger him constantly to tell me more. After my nan died, he used to take the coach from East Ham in London to come and stay with us. It used to be the highlight of my summer. He taught me how to play cards, and perhaps the best of all, how to ride a bike. Every morning, I would get up and plead with him to come into the back garden and teach me how to ride my bike. He would have barely had time to eat his weetabix cereal and marmalade toast, washed down with PG tips tea, before I would come tugging at his sleeve. I remember it took me a week, until I was ready to show the whole family that I could ride my bike, on the grass, all by myself.
My sister, brother and myself were his only grandchildren. So we were spoiled. Not like kids are today. Our spoiling consisted of being allowed custard and ice-cream on your dessert. Or being able to have a choc ice (kinda like those blocks of vanilla ice-cream with a thin layer of chocolate on), and a twix bar in the afternoon. He and my Nan called me Baby, long after I stopped being one. I'd get all huffy. But secretly, I think I liked it. Now, the boys and I call my Grandad, Grandad John Robert. Otherwise they'd get confused since they have a Grandad in England now. JP liked that he shared the name John with him. I have so many memories, of his house in London, of his tiny garden that was the size of our kitchen, but filled with beautiful flowers and vegetable anyway, of how his tobacco smelled when he filled up his pipe, and how he always wore suspenders. John loved a joke, loved a pint of beer and a ploughmans lunch, and loved to tell you exactly how something should be done. (Did I mention that he kinda acted like he knew it all?!) It's odd how he is gone, been gone for a while now, and all I can pass onto my children are snippets of my memories of him. Thank god for Dundee marmalade for helping me remember him all the more.

Thank God for my brother. Today, after taking care of a very sick 20 month old (with a high fever), I was still able to dial and hear a family member with an British accent. When it is way past the time that I can call my Mum or my sister (I hate that 6 hour difference), I can always call him in Indianapolis. I know it sounds daft, but around 5 or 6pm, I just want to ring someone and talk about my day, their day, world peace, British politics or just about anything under the sun...something my family is really good at doing.
When I first moved here, I had accepted that I would be the only person from my family that lived state-side. I jokingly asked my Mum one day before I flew off over the Atlantic, would she ever move to America? No! I will never leave England, she fiercely told me. I understood. I love England. However, I had lived here for about 7 years when my brother moved to Indy. How fucking happy am I? And consequently, I have that person to unload on (sorry!) at the end of the day. I have the bloke that I can call on St Patrick's Day and we both bitch about the unfairness of it all...(another blog). I can call and ask, will you build us a shed this year? (Did I mention that he is amazing with constructing and building stuff). Oh, and he taught me every sport I ever played....even ones that were totally girly and he had never played. (Field hockey, hurdles, basketball, and then soccer when I played on a co-ed team here a few years ago.)
I have an easier time being honest with him than anyone else ('cept Kyle of course). And when I think how he never had a brother, (he was just sandwiched between two girls) he never complained. he never made me feel like I should have been a boy so that he could, you know, teach me boy stuff. He did that anyway, and he let me be a girl when I needed to. be He still does...he just calls me a goat if I go too far.

On my mind

My mind is a scary place to be. It's full of pictures (possibly signifying I'm a bit on the spectrum?), half remembered conversations, feelings, smells (usually linked to a picture), worries, concerns, obsessions, partially read articles, and half listened to NPR radio segments.
Is every-one's brain like this? It seriously needs to get unplugged sometimes. For example, I get home from the zoo today, baby won't nap, big boys watching a movie, and I am talking to my mum in England. I have so many stupid, unimportant, trivial kinda crap that I share with her, that I am sure she is in her living room in the house that I grew up in, doing that hand motion to my Dad that basically indicates that the person that you are talking to is talking FAR too much and you wish that they would shut up. But my brain keeps bouncing from one topic to the next, to the next, to the next, and to the next. (See what I mean?)
I watched the HBO movie about Temple Grandin (the animal scientist who is autistic.) It got me thinking how my brain thinks in pictures. (Obviously not like hers.) So,I tried to explain to Kyle how my brain thinks of a calendar. I think he thought I was fucking nuts. I asked him how he pictured a calendar and he didn't seem to know. (Or he just didn't feel the need to explain. that happens alot.) I think he is far more linguistic than I, and he hears more than I do, whereas I see. And I feel. I don't think in words, unless I see the word. I have told him numerous times that I would love to plug my brain into his, just so he could understand what the heck it was I was trying to explain. But honestly, I think he would get totally freaked out. It's not even that it's smart. It's not, especially. It's just a constant. I wish I could turn it off. Maybe that's why I love to sleep at night SO much. It's heavenly to not think for 7 hours. People I love keep telling me that I just need to get back to my classes at grad school and I will be able to have something more significant to occupy my thoughts with. (This has worked before, and actually was a huge reason that I started my Masters. I was spending a tremendous amount of time being homesick. The chaos of four hour night classes took care of those superfluous thoughts.)
So, that plan could work again. Or it could just create more for my brain to soak up and for me to obsess about. See, that's the pessimistic part of my mind. Never fails.

School's out for summer.
(Shit. School is out for summer.)
Three boys 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Wonder what you would get paid to do that?
I need a drink....

On imperfections

Recently I have tried very hard to finish a parenting book that a couple of people had recommend. While I liked many of the concepts in the book, the main premise is that when disciplining children, a parent should try to minimize emotion and talking. (Really, really hard for me. Really hard.)
I guess as adults we expect children to understand rationally why they can't or shouldn't do something. The book declares that this just isn't the case, and while as adults we have this expectation, our children just don't get it. So trying to talk and explain the whys and wherefores of everything is just like beating ourselves in the head with a cricket bat. The emotion should be taken out just because, bottom line, emotion escalates everything (I would agree with this....!)
The book was actually very helpful, although I think I have to make notes on the ideas in it, just to keep it all straight in my head, before I unleash some new type of discipline on my poor children!
However, last week, I had a rough week with one of my boys and I found that the golden rule of discipline was broken many times in my house. (I talked too much and I was way too emotional.) Consequently, I spent many days (and nights) beating myself up. First, because I broke the bloody golden rule of parenting, and second, because I felt like I failed my child. When any of them are giving me a hard time, I want to be this firm, but fair, disciplined, but kind mother. I want them to feel that when they feel like all is lost (even if it is over whether they get to go and pick out another lego at target), that I am their safe place. If I'm not that place....who the hell, or what the hell is? (This maybe a major presumption on my part, but that's how I felt/feel about my Mum, and I want that for them.)
Fortunately, my very wise sister-in-law wrote in an email to me that she thought that being a perfect mother was showing imperfection. Genius. This is why the aforementioned discipline approach is all very well, I mean, it's a great goal when you really want to shut down that truly annoying, nit-picking kind of behaviour that just drives you nuts on a daily basis, but if I think about big picture stuff, and how I am trying to prepare my children for adulthood, maybe showing imperfection, and yelling (occasionally?!) and being emotional allows them to see that the world is an imperfect place. That people are emotional, and irrational, and make mistakes. I don't mean to cop out of disciplining my kids. That would be a huge mistake, and make my house an unbearable place to live. (And it would make my kids unbearable brats to be around!) I suppose I was just really grateful to think of the silver limning to my little black, rain cloud.
I set the bar for motherhood high in my head, and while I still want to be their safe palce, I have to recognize that I am not perfect. (God, am I ever not perfect....) But I love my kids beyond belief, and I hope that on our bad days, they still know that. I tell them, but there's always one that throws back - "no you don't!"

On teenage employment

I was remembering this week all the jobs I had as a teenager. I don't actually know why I got thinking about it...it may have been the rain...my umbrella that jogged a memory of one job at a chintzy handbag (purse) shop where I worked for about 4 weeks. Just long enough to get my store discount and buy my mum a really pretty umbrella for her birthday. Then I quit. That was the story of my life. Work for a few weeks, then quit. (I actually had very noble intentions. I desperately wanted to work, in fact I had a great work ethic. I just kept having panic attacks. So I would quit.)
Anyway, my first job was at this dodgy indoor market, that I think only exist in Essex. That was over Christmas when I was 15 (actually I was working illegally since 16 was minimum employable age. Cash in hand and some sweet flared jeans with suspenders attached and no one was any the wiser.) This job taught me how to add up (in my head - no cash register- easier to run a dodgy market stall) a number of items that ended in 99 pence. Since I am convinced that have mathematical dyslexia (dyslexia can run in familys and can often switch male/female and language/maths with each generation) these calculations were no small feat.
When I was legally able to work, my first proper job was at "Words" a small card and gift shop. The woman who owned the shop, on my first day was wearing odd coloured shoes. She also sent me home one day for wearing long shorts. (Aparently the shorts weren't professional looking. For what I made, I don't think I had to look professional!) The job basically consisted of a lot of dusting, polishing brass door plates, and organizing greeting cards. But, alas, after a few months, the panic attacks got the better of me and I left. Then there was the pharmacy that during the interview the manager took my hands and looked at my nails (??!!) and declared that I had major vitamin deficiencies. And that I needed a tonic. English people love to tell you that if you are looking a little peaky you need a tonic. (Think Mary Poppins and the medicine she feeds to the kids with a spoonful of sugar. No one actually finds out why they need the medicine. It was probably a tonic for every nondescript ailment a child, or adult can be suffering from.) The pharmacy guy freaked me out and I turned the job down. I waitressed at Pizza Hut which was a horrible experience. You had to clean tables before you could even serve food. Then, once you had taken a 6 week training course you could become a server. Except...the idea of sitting in a meeting for 6 weeks (once a week of course) absolutely terrified me. (the dreaded panic attacks.) Oh, and the manager had this weird flirty, suggestive thing going on with all the female wait staff. (It was quite suggestive.) And that scared the shit out of me too. English employers/management at the time just didn't think there was anything wrong with hitting on your staff. So, after a couple of weeks I quit Pizza Hut too. But even now, I can never go in one and hit the salad bar without remembering how to re-stock that salad bar.
After Pizza Hut, came the handbag shop. And after that I worked for Wimpy (a smaller hamburger chain, kind of like Burger King, but you sat down and were waited on). I just hated the smell of fried food that followed you home at the end of the day. So I only worked there for 6 weeks. I guess as I got older and I kicked the panic attacks and I was able to hold down a part-time job like a normal teenager.
But my best job story ever was while I was waiting for my visa to move here. The mushroom farm. Oh dear God, possibly the worst job that I have ever had in my life. First, here is some mushroom trivia. Mushrooms grow overnight in big wooden beds that literally look like bunk beds. So, you pick them very early in the morning. You have to climb up these beds (workers insurance?!) and reach over compost/manure type soil to pick white or portabella mushrooms. You have a small paring night and you just fill up as many of those little blue mushroom cartons as you can in one morning. Now, here was what bothered me ('cause the previous stuff was all hunky dory), you had to dip all your equipment at the end of your shift (basket for holding cartons, and knives) in a huge vat of chemicals. (Red flag #1) Chemicals that killed the mushroom mites. (WTF? Red flag #2) Mushroom mites are tiny, little creepy crawlies that are hard to see, but live in the mushroom beds. When I finished, I would ride my bike home and shower. I would lay down to nap and just feel those barely visible mites crawling all over me. So, I ended up leaving that job also. However, what was really sad was that the women I worked with had barely any education. They all had to make money somehow, and mushroom pickers were in high demand. When I asked someone exactly what the chemicals in that big old vat were, they shook their head and told me they didn't know. But they were sure the chemicals were safe. Why else would the management let them use the dip?

On Hamilton

I am reading this fascinating book that I picked up in Virginia when we were visiting Montpelier. It's called the Intimate Lives of the Founding Fathers. It's about the FF's personal lives and loves. And no, it's not sordid! The title sounds chintzy I know. But it has been truly interesting because it not only covers the FF's wives and lovers, it also discusses their relationships with their parents and children, and it is all done within the time that they lived. So I am getting a great synopsis of these guys place in history. (I did read about half of a John Adam's autobiography, but you know, it was a but heavy going here and there, and I finally gave up and gave the book back to my father-in-law.) So, the Washington chapter was cool - I mean, he's Washington! The Adam's chapter was great because you really got this picture of a couple that adored each other and found it hard to live without each other. Despite many years of having to live apart. (The Franklin chapter was crap. I just don't care for Benjamin F.) But the Hamilton chapter had me on the edge of my seat! Thus far in my life, I knew little of Hamilton except he was a co-author of the Federalist Papers, that he had something to do with the Treasury and that he and John Adams had ALOT of animosity towards each other. What I didn't know was that he was kind of an orphan from Trinidad and that his parents had a huge influence on his hesitation to marry a rich girl and his infidelity. But what was amazing to me is that this chapter just proved to me that political scandals, backstabbing, and blown-up conspiracy theories have been around for 100's of years! Hamilton has one affair in particular that seemed to cost him his political influence and standing. His enemies get a hold of the letters between Hamilton and his mistress and they try to show that he had dipped into the treasuries money (especially when the country first sold stock to the public). Hamilton's enemies publish the letters!! (I can see the headline now in Us, People and the National Enquirer!) Hamilton comes out and writes this long mini-book about his affair and tried to defend himself in light of the monetary accusations. Once he dies (from a bullet in a duel....the drama!) all his papers are released and it shows that he died bankrupt and never touched a penny that didn't belong to him in a legitimate manner. Wow.
The chapter was reassuring in a troubling way. It helped me realize that our generation is not going to hell...human nature has, apparently always revealed in a scandal. There has always been individuals who cannot wait to top their enemies, with or without legitimate proof of wrong doing. I guess the difference now is that you know, back then there would be no apology, instead a duel would ensue! I wonder how Tiger Woods would have fared in those times? Or John Edwards? At least now, the women who were also wronged could challenge to a duel, instead of being pretty much powerless. However, the general public (and the wives) just have to sit through the pitiful public apology or an interview with Oprah. I think I'd take the duel.

Article

I just read an interesting article in Newsweek on Motherhood (surprise, surprise). The author (Julie something or other) wrote about how mothers are setting the bar for themselves too high. She begins the article by describing mothers who pursued their carers, their need for creativity, their individuality while other women raised their children. Her two examples (Julia Baird...I found the magazine) were Doris Lessing and Dorothea Lange. Both women left their children while they carved out their careers. I think the point of the article was to show that while women are no longer held back by men, we are now held back by our children. More specifically, we are held back by the idea of a perfect mother. (Whom I am sure does not exist.)
"Today, women no longer need to escape their families to work or be happy - now they need to escape their own unrealistic expectation of what a good mother is" (J. Baird)
The author talks about how we are allowed now to be more than mothers, but that we wonder whether we have time to be anything else but a mother if we are to be a perfect one. I guess I do beat myself up about things that maybe previous generations didn't worry about. But in my defense I think this is a totally different era to raise children in. In some ways it's a more honest and open era. I think women are more willing to talk about what is hard about being a parent, a working parent, a career women, a caretaker, a wife, or a friend. On the other hand we are bombarded with what to do, (do use conflict resolution with your child and positive reinforcement at all times) and what not to do (don't praise too much - you may ruin their inner motivation and intrinsic reward systems). Advice changes as quickly as I change my socks. One baby could have whole milk at one. Two babies later and whole milk has too many calories and at one you can switch to skim milk. But wait, I thought fat was good for brain development? Or only good until one?
Motherhood at least isn't as public and scrutinized as being pregnant was. (Well, it might be, but in a kind of different way.) I have never felt as watched as when when I was expecting. Over the space of 7 years the list of things that were off limits grew and grew. It turned something beautiful into a medicalized condition. (I know, I know, it's all for the best, health of the baby etc, but I got the feeling I was smear on a slide, under a microscope.)
It seems like pregnancy is just the beginning of this hyperscrutinity that evolves into eventual complete paranoia that nothing you do as a mother is right. I hope by the next generation of women, they will find a balance between doing what makes them happy and what makes them a better parent and feeling like a good mother because they love their kids. Bottom line, they love their kids, like we love our kids. Whether we give them the right milk at the right time. Or whether we forget to praise them or we praise them too much. We just love them. And at the end of the day...isn't that all we need? All they need?

On Parenthood

Well. Where to start? I remember how clueless and deliciously oblivious I was to the hard work that goes into raising a family. My sister started her family before me and I now cringe at how completely ignorant I was to how hard it was for her. I was always willing to help out - babysitting, sleeping over when her husband was out of town, a pizza out when she needed it (restaurants didn't happen much back in the day) making lunch for her toddler when she was so sick in her second pregnancy, and washing her kitchen floor when she couldn't bend over. But, I really had no idea of how hard it is being a parent. When babies are little and you are so sleep deprived that you can hardly string a sentence together, you think that once your baby sleeps through the night, your life will just magically become easier again. Ha! The sleep deprivation is just the first on a long list of worries. Then the list may encompass the worry that they don't say much or eat enough. Then you add the concerns over biting other kids or throwing everything that can be picked up. Do they play well with others? Do they pay attention in class? Can they read well enough to write the journal sentences? Can they participate in team sports? The list is endless. And....it doesn't seem to get easier. Sure, you're not having to watch a crawling baby navigate the world or making sure that a baby gets enough milk when you decide to quit nursing, but, it looks like it changes to other psychological mind-fucks that just seems to get harder as the kids get older. Because you're not in control of their life anymore. You can't tell them when to sleep, when to eat, how to play nice, or the best way to sit on a potty. You have to watch them learn through making their own mistakes and poor decisions. Then it appears that you have to sit and listen to them pour out their heartbreak without saying 'I told you so'.
I remember asking a friend who had a baby before me if she felt she was working harder than before her baby when she worked a job with physically and mentally handicapped adults. Her answer? Yes. She felt she was absolutely working harder than she ever had in her life before. Three kids later and I totally agree. Those 16 2 and 3 year olds that I taught before my boys came along were hard work, but here's the difference - I got to give them back at 6pm. I didn't work weekends. I got sick days and vacation days. And I could discipline them fairly without feeling guilty. I got paid for that gig!! Now I am paid with giggles and smiles. I am rewarded with the hope that I am (hopefully) preparing these 3 boys for the world. And while I may not sufficiently detach emotionally when I try to discipline, I think I am teaching them that emotions are part of what makes us human. And that no matter what, I will love them until the day I die. And hopefully they will remember all that and if i am lucky they will do the same for their children.

Closing a chapter in your life

What makes it SO hard to close the baby chapter? I have been pondering this a lot recently. Mainly because I tend to over think everything and because perfect strangers come up constantly and ask if I am going to "go for the girl?" or they ask, "didn't you want a girl?" (To which my response - in my head of course is - "sure I wanted a girl, what one should I trade in? the sassy one? the one that throws fits? or the one still in diapers?!") All joking aside, I wouldn't trade a single thing about my life. (Unless my mum/dad/sister and family all lived in the OP.) And I am perfectly happy that I don't have a girl - there's only room for one crazy bitch in our house.
I am of the age where many of my friends are finished having babies or close to it. (Where the heck did that time go?) And while I love babies, and so does Kyle (oh and they love him, he is a baby magnet), I can't quite get my head around having one more. And it's not like I should have one more, but I don't always feel 100% done. But is that because I am just feeling the sadness that comes when you decide to pack in the baby gig. This brings me back to the original question: what makes it so hard to close the baby chapter. Here are my thoughts so far -

1. The ability to create life is awesome. It's the coolest thing my body has ever done. And as I liked to point out to kyle - my body did it out of nothing. (I know that's not entirely true, but that's how it felt.) I am not a raging feminist, but I am sorry women are pretty fantastic. I know guys are pretty cool, you know, they can pee standing up for goodness sake....but come on. Creating life? We only need you at the start and then you can toot your horn about your peeing ability. But realistically? Not that impressive in comparison.
2. The life of a mother, while wonderful and full of, um....love....it's just not that glamorous. But when you are expecting a baby, you're special. Just for a bit. Just until the wee thing comes out and then you're chopped liver. But when else do you get to talk about yourself (even if it is just to your obgyn?) and focus on yourself? Well, OK, that only happens with the first one, but you all know how I love to talk about myself, so this is a nice time in my life!
3. I wasn't a fabby career woman (although I Loved my job and that job ultimately led me to my graduate degree), I still felt like I was just kind of waiting to start the whole family thing. Now what do I wait for? Really? Wait for the boys to be stinky, hairy teenagers who mumble at me, think I am embarrassing and lie about what they get up to? Or maybe I should be on the edge of my seat for them all to leave for college? Right. then I'll be all psyched about empty-nest-syndrome. Oh I know what I'm waiting for! The menopause!! Or even better - the perimenopause. (Which I didn't know even existed until recently.) I assume that Kyle will kick me out and/or trade me in for a younger, more supple, less depressed/whinny chippie. (She'll probably be blonde too....)
I think I preferred the blissfully 'ignorant to life with children' kind of waiting.
4. I'm not really going to elaborate on this thought since it's a blog in itself - pre-baby body versus post-baby body. All I will say is, you pick apart your body before you had babies and then you totally romanticize that body after you have them. (See, only room for one crazy in our house.)
Maybe it's like university. You can't really believe it's over and you figure you'll miss all that delicious time you could waste and procrastinate about what you should be doing, but at some point it ends, and real life kicks in. It seems to me that life is all about adjusting to changes, and finding balance in your life. So, that means I have to adjust to the idea that I will not be cute and pregnant (I never felt cute, but I think you should.) but I will be fabby, with a graduate degree, and three handsome young men. Then I will find balance in my emotions about giving up that miraculous process of pregnancy/birth/nursing. I will put that process on one side of a scale, and on the other side I will put sleep/running out without having to pump milk/having my body to myself. Then I may be able to close the baby chapter a little more easily.

So I am sitting in the kitchen, listening to my ipod, waiting to start dinner, and a Christmas carol comes up. (Once In Royal David's City to be exact.) I have this CD that Mum gave me of Christmas carols from some old cathedral in Limeyland. Everyone but me dislikes it because, you know, it sounds like church music. (Which I love.) It got me thinking about the Christmases of my childhood....since when I hear that music I can almost picture I am back, as a little girl in Mum and Dad's house. The memory and feeling is so strong that it can bring tears to my eyes and a lump to my throat.
I can't work out if it's being English and the whole kind of Dickensian type of Christmas...the pudding (will it turn out? won't it? will it be as delicious as last year? See The Christmas Carol and Mrs. Cratchitt's pudding for a true appreciation of the importance of this delectable dessert), the roast turkey and roast potatoes (fluffy inside and roasted to a golden crisp on the outside), the carol singers or Salvation army singers in the high street on a Saturday that sing those almost melancholy Christmas carols that with a wind band accompanying them sound strangely sad and at the same time sweet. Or whether my family have some special attachment to the holiday. I know this is part of it because my sister feels the same way as do about Christmas. All the traditions as children that we partook in (and believe me they weren't big or fancy) we still want to do now at the grand ages of 36 and 43. My sister gets to do most of them whereas the years we are in America, I make do with the memory of them.
Most of our traditions were centered around food. The making of the pudding, usually around November time, the baking of the Christmas cake (stir it, make a wish and inhale the heavenly scent of brown sugar, butter, lemon, orange and spice), mince pies (luxury ones with the sweet filling and sweetened cream cheese enclosed in an orange, buttery short crust pastry). Or, when I was really small, we made peppermint candies, marzipan sweets dipped into melted chocolate, and my Mum wrapped dates around almonds for my Dad to enjoy over Christmas. My children have all kinds of traditions but they are way fancier - a child's production of Christmas Carol with Grandma (my personal favourite), a gingerbread house (made from scratch and assembled by yours truly), and a big Christmas Eve party at their Uncles (who knows how to party!!).
We had very little as children. I received one present from my parents, one from each of my siblings (I have 2), one from my Grandad or as we got older maybe five pounds from him and five from Great Auntie Ruth. Oh, and my stocking from Father Christmas. Wow. That was the thing I LOVED the most. Mum and Dad would leave them at the bottom of our beds and when you woke up at the crack of dawn on Christmas morning, you could feel the bulky, heavy-ish, stuffed stocking at the foot of your bed. My brother and I would spend many days leading up to Christmas making plans. We'd plan on sleeping in the same room, and we'd plan on staying up to see Father Christmas. We'd practice creeping around his room, or trying to turn on his light without anyone else hearing the switch flick. We'd hide his flashlight under his wicker rubbish basket, so that the light would filter out of the tiny, crisscross holes in the basket which would then shed a dim constellation-like pattern on the floor around it. Of course, we never made it that late. But the preparation and anticipation of that night was the best part of all.
I didn't have a big extended family. No big parties, and lots of cousins or Aunties and Uncles. Our Christmases were kind of quiet with Grandad and Nanny Self staying for a couple of days. And after Nanny passed away, just Grandad, who would get us all excited about making eggs and bacon for breakfast on Christmas morning instead of our usual weetabix or cereal. But, despite the quietness I can still remember how wonderful it all felt. I guess it'strue that it isn't the presents (see the Grinch - the Who's know it), it's it really just time spent with loved ones, eating food that you only get once a year, and hearing that really old-fashioned church music. Priceless.

Reflections after getting sick

I was sick last week. (Suspected food poisoning - don't ask.) It was rough. But as they say, every cloud has a silver lining and due to being sick I worked out a couple of things.
First, since I was wiped out for 5 days, I figured out that slowing my life down was the only was I was going to get through each day with 3 children. I had someone wonderful walk the big boys home from school and when the going was really tough, my mother-in-law and best girlfriend saved our arses. The funny thing was that nothing in my house went to the pits in the process of me slowing down. For example, the kids ate, the kids were clean (mostly and thanks to that best girl friend the baby was extra clean), the laundry got done, (not as efficiently as my freakishness likes, but it got done!), and most importantly, I actually sat with the boys far more than usual. I sat and read with Kyler more. I sat and watched JP and Charlie's dodgy 30minutes kid shows and actually discovered that Phineas and Ferb is quite funny. (Don't ask about chowder though. That show is just plain crap.) I realized that before I got sick, everything was starting to feel a little out of control. I know I stay at home (and I don't know how my friends do it all who work) but fuck me, I cannot keep on top of everything that goes on! I wasn't on top of things last week, but i laughed more and enjoyed my boys a lot more.
Anyway, swearing aside, I guess having food poisoning was a good thing? (As much as it pains me to say it....)
Second, after being able to function on Gatorade (More than I ever wanted to drink - doctors orders for very low potassium), English crackers, and bananas, I also came to the conclusion that we all eat A Lot. For example, when I was feeling a bit better, I took the boys to Target and while we were there I thought I would try to eat a Starbucks blueberry scone. The damn thing was enormous! I ate a corner. And I just kept thinking....is this why we have a nation of obesity? (No offense Starbucks.) Because circular scones, that used to be about about 2 inches across, have morphed into a huge, dense triangle of dry anti-Britishness.
Unfortunately, I also realized that for me to run at my usual pace, with all the energy that I use up trying to keep up with my 3 boys, I have to eat a lot more than I did last week. But maybe I'll think twice before I tuck into a big Starbucks scone. (Unless it's the maple scones in the Fall. There's always room for those delicious babies....)

....on cheese.

I think I just discovered the best cheese. It's a triple cream, French soft cheese, like a brie combined with Gorgonzola. The name of this deliciousness? Cambozola. I bought it at Wholefoods where they were giving out samples and dollar off coupons. (Smart.) It worked on me because I fell in love with this cheese. It's soft, like brie, actually it was softer, so much so that when you put it in your mouth, it just melts. It reminded me of the consistency of perfectly warmed ice-cream or when chocolate reaches body temperature and just melts on your tongue. Then there is a kick from the Gorgonzola. It's. Just. Fantastic.

Yesterday morning, as I was driving downtown, I listened to The Story on NPR. For once my journey was longer than 10 minutes, so I actually got to listen to almost all of the segment - a miracle! The story featured an elderly British man, Malcolm Morris who had grown up in London during the blitz in World War 2. Mr. Morris was about 7 or 8 at the height of the war. His family lived in north London, where they decided to stay during the bombings, rather than go to safer parts of the country like many other Londoners did. Mr. Morris' home was about 500 yards from a bridge that joined the north part of England with London. The bridge was an essential link that the Germans constantly tried to bomb. He remembered how blase his family became about going down into the air raid shelter at night, so instead he would watch the bombs exploding from his window. He recalled how to the kids, shrapnel was a precious commodity that traded well between peers. Mr. Morris told all of this and more in a delightful, upbeat manner that exuded that British 'chin-up'-ness. The best story of all however was how he was thrown across a room by a land mine. These land mines were dropped from a specific kind of plane, attached to a parachute. When the parachute reached so many feet from the ground, the land mine exploded. Mr Morris just chuckled at the fact that he was so unaware of this landmine heading toward the vicinity that he was in, that his body was relaxed enough for little damage to be inflicted upon him when he did a body slam against a wall.
It all got me thinking. Got me thinking how easy my life is in comparison with these families that lived through London in World War 2. It got me thinking how spoiled our generation is, and the following generations are, that we really haven't had to live with the kind of fear that Europe felt from 1939-1945. (I mean, France at it's closest point to England is only around 20 miles away. Occupied France. With Germans intent on marching right on across the Channel to England....)
It also got me thinking about my family, and how recent all this sadness, anxiety, and fear really was in the grand scheme of things. For example - my grandfather had to leave his wife and son (my Dad), in east London to work on the army tanks in Germany. My grandmother refused to leave London and stayed with her 2 year old child while neighbouring streets were bombed. My great-grandmother, blown up by, if I remember correctly, a V2 rocket. The V2 was an exceptionally sinister type of bomb that was used in the later years of the war. It was the first sub-orbital rocket and was developed in response to the allies bombing German cities. As a kid, in history, we were told the V2 was silent - apart from the sonic-boom that some people heard over London- and that once you did hear the rocket it was too late.)
All of this stuff speaks for itself. It's a wonder to me that a whole generation actually made it. Not just physically, but mentally too. I wonder if they had/have more resilience? Or whether they appreciated the day-to-day grind because there was a strong chance it could all be taken away in an instant.
Everyone that was an adult during the war, back home, are gone now. And all these questions that I didn't have when I was a teenager will have to wait. Maybe I'll meet them again. And if I play my cards right, we'll have blissful eternity to discuss the answers.

4,000 miles

Sometimes, if I let myself think about it, I start to panic about the fact that my parents, sister, and her family are 4,000 miles away. You would think that after living here for almost 14 years that I would have grown used to that fact and that it wouldn't bother me. Ha. I guess this is where life is funny. It's more weird than funny, more complicated than amusingly simple, and there seems to be more conflicted feelings than I ever thought possible. In this instance with me living so far away from home, life is funny on many different levels. First, because I could hardly leave the house when I was 15/16 for fear of panic attacks. I now live part of continent and an ocean away from that house. Second, because I never thought I would not live by my sister. We used to have this dream that when we were older we would start a business together. It was going to be a quaint coffee shop (we both LOVE coffee) and we were going to sell our art. Admittedly these plans were formed before I was an adult. My sister is 7 years older than me, but despite that we have always been very close. Third, (and this is the funniest) I never wanted to even visit America. In college, I would sit in a sociology class, where all my fellow students talked of wanting to visit the States, and I just wanted to go to Africa or Russia. (Strangely now none of those places are at the top of my places-to-visit list.) And now America is the place I call home.
Life is complicated because I can desperately miss my family in England, the physical country and the culture yet I love living here, love the friends I have made, and the family I married into that I now call my own. But then again, I have these yearnings to see my boys in school uniform going to school, or to spy a red post box nestled in a wall (like the little one by my parents house), or hear the peal of church bells on a Sunday morning.
Most tragically it seems (in my head at least) I think about the time I am missing with them all. The days fly by, the months and years pass quickly. My children grow and change, and all the while my parents miss out on all the milestones and significant moments. They miss the day to day comings and goings that they get to witness and partake in with my sister and her family. when I think like this, I start to feel a weight crushing down on me. I feel suffocated. And the worse thought of all crosses my mind....that when they are gone, and I am old, I will feel like I wasted all this time apart from them. There. That's the conflict. Clearly, I am not wasting time. But I am terrified that I will never get this time back. The time when the boys were 2 and 4. Or 3 and 5. When Kyler was born, or when JP first played T-ball. When Charlie went to kindergarten and all the future events that we have yet to experience. It's so permanent. And of course it is. I can't turn time back. I can't relive everything but relive it with my parents and sister living down the road.
So, I will try to not to think too hard, miss them all too much, or speculate on future situations and their possible corresponding feelings. Right.....

I have been accused of over thinking. This is not news. So, I think I am over thinking this whole blog thing. Strangely I don't mind the idea of anyone being able to read it, but I become very upset when people I do know read it....especially since I don't actually think I can write that well. It begs the question, who should read it and why am I writing it? I am foggy on both answers.

I write for several reasons. One, it feels therapeutic (I know I could keep a paper diary, but I think I am not patient enough for the fine motor skill of writing. However, I do think I am going to try to revive the art of letter writing.) Two, I have a lot of thoughts and memories especially that I wish to express. And three, it saves my poor husband from being unloaded upon when he walks in the door after work. But I think I think the very act of blogging (n my case anyway) is completely narcissistic.

I have had two incidents where the blog got passed along, and I wasn't sure whether I wanted it to. Which is ridiculous 'cause it's out there....on the world wide web....for any Tom, Dick or Harriett to see. The people I know who read it (or pretend to) know all my warts, my endless, rambling thoughts, and my over-use of parenthesis. The strangers I don't care about. For example, when I was at University I was in a play (Steel Magnolias...a future blog since it was a hoot and a holler), and it ran for 4 nights. Two of those nights, I knew no one in the audience, and that was exactly how I liked it. The two nights where either my room mates were there or my family came, I was ready to have a heart attack on stage. I don't know what that says about me?

Maybe I should just make the blog into a memoir. Then, I wouldn't feel so chintzy about writing about myself. Who knows?

I was going to write today about this cool article in Newsweek about women and the Catholic church. But I haven't finished it yet (major problem) and as I was getting ready to fold laundry (what fun I have) I heard on NPR, an interesting piece about Tiger Woods and his latest advertisement for Nike.
Here's a little background on what I know about Tiger Woods - brilliant golfer, father put a golf club in his hand at a ridiculously young age, role model for young athletes, wins ALL the time, Gatorade and Nike use him to sell their products...oh and he slept with all kinds of women, while his wife carried and gave birth to his two children. Call me irrational but I really have trouble separating the way a man conducts his private life and his status in our culture. I have this strange idea that, especially when you are considered a role model you would maybe, take a holistic point of view of your life and try to do the right thing, be a good and decent person, and keep it in your pants!!! (Oh and we won't even cover the fact that Tiger gets paid shit-load of money and this combined with raw talent, elevates him to some God-like status. What makes that worse is I know there are many, many people who do so much good in this world for so much less monetary reward and public recognition.)
So, I go to you-tube to see the Nike Ad, and it's ridiculous. The camera is on Tiger, it's shot in black and white, and he's looking all remorseful and childlike. Then, Tiger's Dad starts talking, from beyond the grave (and I know that man was not faithful either), and he asks questions like, "I want to know what you were thinking" (I'll tell you what he was thinking...) and "did you learn anything?" Yeah, Dad, I learned that you can have your cake and eat it! Dad, I learned that when you're me, you get to fuck who the heck you want to, take a few months out to go sex-addiction rehab (why they don't they just re-name that cheating rehab for famous men?), and then step right back up to play at the Masters and get all kinds of money from advertisements again. Oh, except I think his marriage broke up, (as did his truck) but what the heck did he expect?
I know that there are so many people who don't agree with me about personal choices and fame, but I guess they can put this blog down to another one of my "WB soap box" rants. I stand by my earlier thought: Tiger Woods + Nike = lower than a snakes balls.

I found out a few things about myself on this trip that we all took last week -

• I love Washington DC. (I already knew that, but every time I go, I am reminded what a fantastic city it is.)
• I do not care for 3 meals per day in restaurant type situations with 3 boys, one of whom is under 2. (See previous blog.)
• I find the landscape of Virginia to be breathtakingly beautiful, and I am sad that the Midwest is so FLAT. (Chicago is pretty rocking though...and the OP is home....)
• I still hate to fly. At one point on the way home, after the captain had warned us all it was going to be choppy as we drew nearer to Chicago, not just bumpy, but choppy, I turned to Kyle who was behind me, and as my head was swimming with vertigo and jumbled thoughts of trying to sing the Wheels on the Bus to Kyler/read a book/breath calmly and steadily, all I could say was "I am terrified". There is no reason now that I am not pregnant or nursing that I can't go get me some flying drugs!!
• I love my daft routine-ridden-stay-at-home-mum life. (Yes, I will change my mind on this by next week I am sure, but for now I am standing by my that statement.) I was so happy to come home and cook for my boys, nothing fancy, just a little pasta Saturday night, and a delicious part-Julia Child quiche for lunch on Sunday. Part because I did not make the pastry. Pillsbury's little dough boy did. Anyway, I guess I also like being my own boss. I say when the f'ing laundry gets done, and when and what we eat, and how I want to rearrange my furniture (sorry Kyle....). That autonomy is no small thing. Even if I do, at times, feel ruled by 3 little, blonde haired boys.
• I love History. I knew this already also, but it's a funny thing when you fall in love with the history of a country that basically grew out of a desire to be separated from the country that you grew up in. And that it is the history of a country that not only wanted the independence from your country, but also purposefully and with complete dedication, ensured that all the seemingly bad things about your country were not repeated or installed in that new one! (This may shed a whole new light on the prospect of my non-existent citizenship....?!) Oh, and I am always, completely and utterly blown away by the founding fathers. I still think it is truly amazing that a handful of men (too bad no girlie's, but I guess Abigail Adams plugged away at John to include us....), could dedicate their lives to establishing a whole new nation. Do you realize that that has never been done before? I mean, we all think this generation is pretty damn smart, but then you think about what those guys thought up, and pondered on, with an excruciating eye for detail, and then I think either all the smart people are hiding or we just ain't all that.

Motherhood

Today I don't like being a mother. I know we're not supposed to disclose that. Mothers aren't. It's some dark thought that shouldn't be shared with the world....but it's true. I am not enjoying it at all today. And it's not the big boys. It's the baby. Which makes me feel even more like a shitty mother.
We're in Charlottesville in a pleasant hotel, with fantastic weather, visiting one of my favorite people (Uncle Eric), and Kyler is spazing out on a regular basis which in turn is making me completely and utterly nuts. His latest thing when he has finished eating is to start knocking everything in his reach off of the table. Food, drink, plates, silverware...if Kyler can reach it then it's gone. All the while he shakes his head from side to side and screams. I can just about deal with this at home....but in a resturant 3 times a day for a week? Holy shit. I love my children but recently in the hotel, l find myself staring at adults without children and I wonder what it would be like to have no one but yourself to worry about? I mean I remember what it was like and Obviously I don't want to go back. And when I am by myself again (I guess when they all leave for college) I'll be completely beside myself with loneliness? Empty-nest syndrome? Older women (complete strangers at times) tell me, when they see me with my boys that these are the best times of my life, and that when all you want is 5 minutes to yourself now, when you do get 5 minutes or 5 hours or 5 days without the very beings that you felt you had to escape from for the afore mentioned 5 minutes, then you don't want it!!!! Well what does this say about the rest of my life? That's it's all downhill from now? Crap.
It's all so confusing. I love motherhood but I don't. I want time on my own, but then I feel guilty when I am on my own. Moreover, I will apparently want these crazy times back when they are gone. I guess the lesson is to live in the moment. Enjoy the now. And breath deeply and count to 10 when your baby chucks food everywhere.

Washington DC

The first time I went to DC was with Kyle, 15 years ago, on a road trip that would eventually take us to New York's JFK airport, with me going back to England after 3 months of working here to see if I liked it. (Otherwise known as "will you drop everything you know and move 4,000 miles from home for the man you love?") It was August, it was terribly hot, and we stayed on the floor of a friends dorm room at Georgetown, and it was my first introduction to "dry campuses". I was shocked, well actually I was horrifed. But, I fell in love with the capital. I remember tearing up at Arlington where JFK is buried and being deeply moved by the respect paid at the tomb of the unknown soilder.
The second time I went to DC was the spring of 2000....I think. My brother came over from England and we took a trip together. Poor guy had to hold my hand on the plane when we hit tubulence (something he hadn't done since I was about 2 and he was 7!)
We walked and walked all over the city. The cherry blossoms were in full bloom at the Jefferson memorial and we ate dinner outside in a little Italian resturant in Georgetown.
Now I went back with my husband and my three young boys. The big boys just wanted to get to the air and space museum and the swimming pool at the hotel (and not necessarily in that order). We took them to the White House and we all (well, Kyle and I) were yet again in awe of it, and a little choked up knowing that America voted in their first African American President. As Kyle kept saying, its a much nicer place knowing there's a democrat inside!
DC is an impressive city. The architecture is beautiful, it's not crowded and claustrophobic like London can be, and it holds so much history that you can't help but feel a connection to this wonderful, but at times strange and conflicted country.

Blogging...

I worked out how to put a photo on my blog and how to change the colour of my text. Very exciting. It was spurred on by going to look at my sister-in-law's blog. She is a very fabulous English professor in Norway, and has written a book on blogging, which has been published in Korean. Korean!!!
So I was checking out her blog today (which she is taking a break from, cause she and my brother-in-law just had another baby - hurrah!), and I realize that there are all these things you can do on a blog, and all these questions start flooding into my brain. (What a surprise.) Again, (see yesterday) this is where that whole international family thing pisses me off, because I have a number of questions for Jill that I just wish I could ask her over a nice cup of tea and some biscuits. (Jill is Australian by birth and I keep wondering if that Aussie/Limey connection is the reason why I feel she understands me SO well! I love it when she comes to visit. Jill just makes sense to me.) I absolutely need to look at more blogs. In all my spare time....Oh and I need to order Jill's book from Amazon. Although, it would only be added to all the books I received for my birthday and some that I still need to read from Christmas (Jill's husband, Scott always sends me cool books, since he is an English professor also. He read philosophy in college - in England when you read a subject at university it means you are graduating in that subject, does it mean that here too? - Well, I used to pretend I knew what the fuck Scott was talking about, since I read philosophy too. As did Ricky Gervais. Weird.) So now I have this amazing pile of books that include - Jane Austen (my own purchase), Henry James (thanks Kyle!), two Temple Grandin books, two parenting books (eekk) Wolfe Hall, and the new one by the chippe who wrote The Namesake. But hey, if it's a book written by your sister-in-law, I think it would be placed right on the top of that pile.
Do you ever feel like you will just never read everything you want to read in your lifetime? And that doesn't even include all the New Yorker articles that come every week and I never even get near. Sigh....

For a few years, Kyle's family lived next door to an English family. They had one son, and many English relatives that subsequently came to spend holidays with my in-laws. When I met Kyle, the English family had already settled back in England, but they were the first of Kyle's 'family' that I was introduced to. (A very big deal at the time. I think I passed...)
They travelled to our wedding, and were a welcome addition to the big American family that I had married into. One of their sisters, who I had heard stories of (mainly that she was a kick-ass business women, that she had a cottage in Ireland that Kyle stayed at when he travelled the UK, and that she was a force to be reckoned with. Oh and that she let Kyle drive a stick shift in England...something he has never done since. And we never want him to do again), sent us two Royal Worcester cake knives. They had white china handles with dainty hand painted red cherries and I remember being touched that someone I had never met sent us something so beautiful and so English.
So, the Royal Worcester knives came out for birthdays to cut cakes that either I lovingly made or came in a box. They also came out when we have friends or family over for those rare times when we make dinner for our loved ones. Jamie Oliver's lemon and lime tart, Ina Garten's apple pie, and for my dear friend's bridal shower, the Cooks Illustrated Strawberry Cream Cake (a stupendous 4 layer sponge cake sandwiched with cream whipped with vanilla and cream cheese, and a oozy layer of strawberries cooked down with sugar and kirsch). All of these deserved being cut with something special...something English.
Two weeks ago we heard that our friend had incurable cancer and she passed away yesterday morning. Being 4,000 miles away is odd for so many reasons, but in this circumstance, it just clouds any ability to grasp reality. When we last saw our friend, we were in Norway for my brother-in-law's wedding. While being delayed at the Bergen airport for 4 hours, our friend entertained our then two young boys. She was amazing with them, despite never having had her own children.
So yesterday I honoured her in the only way I could think of, alone in the house with my three boys, and a homemade Julia Child quiche. I cut the quiche with the cherry painted Royal Worcester knives.