On Citizenship

I became a US citizen today. It was something I originally thought would be easy to do (about 20 years ago). But, when I actually moved here permanently, it became, in my mind, an impossibility. It is hard to describe the reasons why you would want to hold onto a citizenship that you grew up with despite not living in that country any longer, hard to put into words what being English means to those who are. There are so many things to be proud of and numerous strong memories of quintessential British places, traditions, and culture. My children love England. They all hold British passports and they seem to be very proud of their mother and their joint heritage. With that said, every time I travelled with them, I was scared we would be separated by Immigration when we landed back on American soil. I am (was) a documented immigrant. I hold (held) a Green Card. But I have witnessed first hand that when the USCIS decide to step in, nothing you can say or do will change their mind or attitude towards you. I understand why they have to be like that. But it is terrifying being on the receiving end.

Another major downside of being a permanent resident is that you cannot vote.  I lived with this for 18 years. I actually only voted in a major election one time in my life; when “New” Labour were voted into Government in November of 1996. While watching the election with my father-in-law stateside I saw an old Government professor on the BBC being interviewed during the election. (Admittedly, afore mentioned Prof was a complete ass and I dropped his class for fear of being trampled by this completely snobby, Tory, sexist man who liked to name drop which Prime Minister he had socialized with at No. 10. Ahem, Edward Heath…) I had voted in that election via absentee ballot. It was the last time I voted and I cried when Labour won; because they actually had got elected after so many years and because I wasn’t there.

So, fast forward 18 years or so, and I decide to become a citizen. Even after that decision, it wasn’t easy to complete. I had to promise over and over again, on paper, in person, with my right hand raised in an oath, that I would bear arms to defend this country. Please understand that I hate weapons in any form. I despise guns and hope to God I never touch one in my entire life. I hope I never have to. There are men and women far more courageous than I who do so every day to defend us and to them I am eternally grateful. Additionally applying for citizenship is an incredibly expensive process (yes, I have a great deal of sympathy for undocumented citizens for this and other reasons).  Oh and did I mention the test? Which, after studying with the intensity of a former government and philosophy student, turned out to be so simple that I almost asked my interviewer to keep the questions coming!

A few days before my interview/test I became quite depressed about the idea that I would no longer be British. The thing that really cut me up is that once you renounce your British citizenship, you can’t live there. You know, you can’t just live there indefinitely. The sadness was ridiculous really because clearly I won’t be moving there anytime soon! It was just the idea of not having that freedom to move.

But without sounding like a complete nut job, I realized I would fight for this country. This is where my children, my husband and my American family live. And I still believe, like the government undergrad I once was, that the Constitution is a truly remarkable document. I believe that the system of government here is a far more logical and well thought out one than the one I came from. Don’t get me wrong, I love the history and pomp and circumstance of the British government and monarchy.  But the way the founding fathers devised a system of government impresses me every time I read about it. Sure, there are problems with how it all works sometimes. Nothing is perfect after all. But I believe in a system that is based on the rights of all men/women to their life, liberty and pursuit of happiness. I am a sucker for quotes such as, “all men are created equal” and that the government is answerable to the governed. That unspoken contract that John Locke wrote of is far more prominent here than I ever felt it was in the author’s homeland.

So, here I am, a newly minted citizen with a voter registration in the works and it feels good. I feel relief because I can work in a public school now (if I chose), I can vote (thank God), I won’t have to renew my Green Card every 10 years (another costly venture especially when they lose it in the mail. Twice.), and I won’t be taking deep breaths every time I travel with my children. (Well, at least not for the Immigration reasons…but travelling with children?!)

My children got to witness my oath taking ceremony with 92 other candidates for citizenship. They got to see how many people leave way worse situations than I left to pursue a better life. And my husband, his parents and aunt, and two of my absolute closest friends were there to support this conclusion in a long, 18 year journey. 

I had this whole piece ready to write. It was all about my Aunt, who died recently. I started it. I started it with how my Mum has (had?) three sisters. But, I couldn't write anymore. I had this whole plan, that on the day of her funeral (in England), I would post this great blog piece as a memorial to her. Well, it didn't get written and consequently, nothing was posted in a grand nod to AJ. Funny how life turns out. Monday was such a shit day, that I honestly couldn't have written anything if my life depended on it.
And so I am left, feeling a bit sad that I never did write about AJ and that I couldn't put into words what she meant to me, to my family.
What strikes me when older people die is how annoyed I am that I didn't ask them everything I wanted to know. Problem is, that before they die, you don't know what it is you exactly want to know. For example, AJ was 5 years older than my Mum. She remembered all about their family - my grandmother and grandfather, their life during and after World War II, my great aunt's, their children and while I had a hard time keeping straight all those cousins that belonged to my Mum and her sisters, I still loved to hear about it all. And if I had a question that my Mum wasn't sure exactly how to answer, she'd tell me to ask AJ. But it's too late now. I can't ask anymore. (I think everyone should keep a little voice memo on their smart phone and just feed memories and facts about their childhood into it. Yeah...not realistic, I know.) But I have this sense that the people in my grandparents generation are starting to fade.  My children know about my grandparents, in fact they love to hear about them; we named them all a little differently than I did as a child, just to make it easier for them to know who was who. But there are funny stories about my great Aunt's and Uncles that just seem to be getting left behind. And it's not just the memories that I am concerned are fading, I worry that there's a whole era in history that my children can't quite get their head around. My grandparents were raising a family during and post World War II. I am raising a family now in an age that probably would have blown their minds! I can barely imagine how it must have been then, so how on earth can my children? Maybe because theWorld War's were such a big thing back at home (obviously...!), and the way they taught them always made us feel like it actually wasn't that long ago. I mean, when you can study the Norman Conquest of Britain in 1066 in the same year as World War II, then the late 1930's and early 1940's really were just yesterday. Maybe because I am interested in it, so I place too much emphasis on it. But it feels like it defined a nation and became part of who we are, how we react to disaster, and how we came out of it. My children are half British, which begs the question - will they feel that too?
But I digress...the fact is, if my children are the kind of people who are interested in that kind of stuff, then I guess the questions will come. And if they're not, that's ok too. In the meantime, I'm going to figure out a way to get my parents to record all their memories....because they don't have smart phones.

In the words of Kristen Wiig, in the character of Paula Deen, "This has been a doozy of a year". (Please read with a very heavy, exaggerated southern accent, then after reading this blog post, look up the SNL skit online.) Fortunately, my family has been safe and healthy, but a great deal just went on, you know? But as Christmas draws near, as does the end of the year, I have some musings that have occurred to me this year, 2012.

• The saying about truth lying somewhere between two people's version? I accept this as gospel now. I have spent a big chunk of my life trying, in any given situation, to get the bottom of what really happened. I finally realized that it's absolutely impossible. everyone comes to a situation with their own version of the truth, their own biases, their own baggage. The minute I let go of this need to really figure out who or what was or is right, the more peaceful I felt, the more I could love, the less weighed down I felt. In grad school when we covered different models of early childhood education, I just wanted to know which one was the right one. My ever wise professor at the time, just said, "Rachel, none of them are the right or the wrong one." A simple response that elicited the beginning of an "aha" moment. 
• Go to the source. I have a tendency to ponder, nay, actually to obsess, about certain things that I then won't actually deal with head on. (There is a bit of avoidance going on....) However, this year, I learned a huge lesson that as uncomfortable as a situation or a conversation may be, dear God, please go to the source and ask. Strangely, I am ok when it comes to apologizing to the source - whatever or whom ever that maybe. But, I am not great at questioning the source. I'd rather go over the query or problem again and again. Much like Gollum in the Hobbit...with an inner monologue (well outer for him), that repeats and questions, accuses and wails.  
• I will endeavor to not shame. I am a big advocate for, although still learning about, Brene Brown's Connections, which is a Shame Resilient curriculum that was launched this year. Please check out her website and if you have a mind to, listen to her CD, Men, women and worthiness. http://www.brenebrown.com/welcome                                                                                               Listening to Brene Brown's CD was another one of those "aha" moments. (The boys and I like to do the Despicable Me, "lightbulb" in Steve Carrey's fabulous voice.) I would have to write 10 more blog pieces on what I have learned, but Shame truly beats us and our loved ones down, slowly and torturously. For our children, it stays with them for life. Remember that teacher? The teacher that shamed you? Didn't just embarrass you, but literally shamed you and who you are? Usually it occurs in front of the whole class, but even if it doesn't, it stays with you for life and slaps more fuel on the "I'm not worthy" pyre. Everyone has one of those teachers...and as an educator, this fact is embarrassing. 
• I realized this year, that as hard as it is to be born, it is hard work to die. (I credit Uncle Rick for that phrase.)  Maybe not for everyone. Just like some births are a easier than others, I suppose, so too are some deaths. Kyle and I had the privilege of seeing his Grandma the night before she passed away. I guess Privilege is a strange choice of words. But I use it because I got to sit and stroke the arm of a 90 year woman who gave me the love of life, my three wonderful boys, and my american family. How could I not feel anything but privilege and immense gratitude? There's always that feeling, when an elderly member of the family dies that an era has ended. In G.G.'s case, she was the last one of her family to die. And I wish we could have written down all the memories and experiences, because now, we can't ask. The only thing I feel we can do, is carry G.G. in our hearts and keep her with us always. 
• Last, but not least, I have been pondering on what kind of advice I would give my boys when they decide they want to marry someone. (Because I am sure that they will all come to me to ask..of all people.) I have come up this so far - marry the person that you not only love above all else and would move mountains for (or country!), but this should also be the person that you would choose to be in the trenches with. It should be the person that would have your back whatever is thrown at you. Because if you chose that person and you stay connected to that person, you can face anything. 

So, those are my bigs thoughts this year. I'm working on another that is connected to small acts of kindness. Can they cancel out violent, cruel acts? Stay tuned....Merry Christmas and a very Happy New Year!

My last post was in December of 2011. 4 months ago. Much has happened, yet at the same time, nothing has changed at all...except I have less work. No, that's not true. I have no academic work. But I have gone of work to do around the house!

Spring came early. Strangers and acquaintances alike asked if I had a job after I graduated. In true Rachel fashion, I examined this question. I felt bad that I didn't have a plan post-graduation. I felt like I had to apologize for staying at home. No wonder Kyle says that I am the perfect Catholic - always feeling guilty about something.

Anyway, in 4 months, we loved how Winter kind of skipped us and Spring came early. I found out how exhausting it is teaching 2nd graders and I have mulled over the idea of becoming a preschool teacher sub. Two out of three of the boys had birthdays and we went to England for Spring Break. And again, in true Rachel fashion, I over thought the England trip also....I suppose there is some comfort in how predictable I am! I have a new niece - she's really, stinking pretty and I think we should get a puppy. If only to stop this baby fever that overcame me when we got back from England.

So here we are in mid-April, on the precipice of T-ball and baseball session, and I am at a watershed.

Finishing

Today I finished my last piece of my Master's degree. Finished editing it. (I had APA by the way.) Finished printing 4 copies of each 60 pages. (Hate printers too.) Stacked them all. Clipped them. Slipped them in folders. Delivered them to 2 out of 4 of the professors on my committee. No matter that the other two don't have it until monday; it's gone. Can't be changed or edited. They review it and then, after an oral defense next Wednesday, they decide whether to pass me. Despite not really being done until the oral is over, I thought giving in the project would give me a sense of relief. I kept waiting, as I drove away from the university, for the little black cloud that has been hovering over my head the last couple of days, would lift. But it didn't. If anything, it sunk in lower behind my eyes and gave me a migraine. What the hell. Five years of work. (OK, I took a year and half of, but I was not eating bonbons. I was taking care of a new baby!)
All I am left with is tiredness (and that headache). I think when I was finishing my undergrad, I had so much more energy. To go celebrate. To drink, to dance and to just feel light and free. Dammit. I don't have those inclinations or feelings as I creep closer to my forties. I just want to have a drink (that's all the celebrating I can manage) and crawl into bed!
As I walked into the building to deliver one of the copies to my advisor, I bumped into my old advisor. This particular professor got me started, gave me warnings about juggling a family and graduate work. Shirley Morgenthaler became my inspiration. She is one of those people that when conversing with, the discussion touches upon everything - where you came from, where you are, and where you might go. The conversations are fantastic. I found it significant that it was Shirley, that I saw, on the day I finished. And in true Dr. Morgenthaler fashion, when I told her I was indeed finished with the project that she had helped plant the seed for, she exclaimed, "Lord be praised"!

My second home

I was sitting in my in-laws kitchen working on my Master's thesis proposal. In a rare few hours of silence (Kyler was napping upstairs, JP was 'babysitting his Aunt's children while she got some things done in her house, and Charlie was at the Harry Potter movie for the second time with my mother-in-law), I had been typing away. Just quietly typing. Well, I say typing away, but what I really mean is, typing…making coffee…typing… trying to pursued the dog to go out and pee…typing… making a snack… typing, picking the aforementioned dog up and carting him outside in the infernal heat to pee… typing….well, you get the picture.

I took a little break. Walked to the fridge and filled my water up. Then, I was struck how this house feels to me. Obviously it is not my parents house, but nevertheless I have a very strong tie to it. I lived here for nine months when I first moved here. And I visited and stayed here for a few trips, back when Kyle and I were shouldering our very long-distance relationship.

My first trip was the August of 1994, when Kyle's oldest brother got married. I walked into the usual pandemonium of the run-up to a big family wedding. (And Kyle's family is big….) I fell asleep on the trundle bed in my now sister-in-law's bedroom, exhausted from travelling overseas for the first time in my life. (Yes, I had not flown off the British isles until I was 20 years old. Let me tell you, take-off was a complete traumatic shock for me.) I drifted off to the sounds of giggles and laughter from the Rettberg cousins in the next room and I woke up to the family dog's (Lucky), wet nose in my face. Over the following two and a half years, I gradually got to know this family and this house. And they go to know me. I realized that I could, upon occasion, make them laugh. I realized that Eric and Megan was like the little brother and sister I had never had. In November of 1996, I moved here permanently. My in-laws were great, especially considering they were in the throes of a local, political campaign and it was an ugly campaign. But they welcomed me in and gave me a bedroom, with a bigger bed than I had ever slept in. There was space for my beloved trinkets and photo frames from the country and family I had just left behind. I immersed myself into the life of a suburban family. I cooked and I tried to clean (but baffled Kyle's mom when I asked her where the "hoover" was instead of the vacuum cleaner. My sister-in-law and I grocery shopped together and I experienced for the first time, a country where a kid can sign on their parent's credit card. Needless to say, we bought a lot of Brownie Bites and Alfredo Pasta-Roni. We loved that stuff. I got a reputation for leaving lights on in closets (which drove my father-in- law nuts) and breaking glasses (which my father-in-law was very patient about). I still break glasses and I still have not lived those times down.

If I tell people that I lived with my in-laws for before I got married, I usually get a very shocked reaction. Shock turns to disbelief. Disbelief is signified by the shaking of heads while telling me I must be some kind of saint. No, I say, I am no saint. I was just a girl who needed a family when she moved country to marry the man she loved. I found a family four thousand miles away from my English family. Without them, I probably would have wanted to go home.

So now, when I walk around, I may not see my baby or toddler pictures (actually they're not hung in my parents' home either!), but I have memories here. I have memories here despite not having have elementary school memories or prom pictures on the wall. But my babies' pictures are all over the walls. And our goofy looking engagement photo was up for a really long time (I say funny because it was when we thought it was a good idea to have me cut Kyle's hair…). Our wedding photo adorns the hallway wall with the rest of the family's. (That one we do look better in.) And regardless of childhood time, I spent a good part of my young adult time in this house.

I went back to my computer and finished my work. Kyler woke up, Charlie came home, JP rolled in with Meg and life carried on.

In the early nineties, Ronald Kotulak’s editor of the Chicago Tribune’s asked him to investigate whether new brain research would shed light on why some children who grow up in violent, high-risk communities lead violent lives and experience untimely deaths and why some do not. Ronald Kotulak wrote Inside the brain. revolutionary discovery's of how the brain works in response. There are two key issues that emerge after reading this book. First, that Early Childhood Education is extremely important due to the critical nature of development in the first three to five years of a child’s life. Second, that education appears to be the key to possibly solving some of society’s biggest issues: crime and health. I keep hearing on the radio the fragmentation of CPS. How the board of Ed intends to close small schools and keep open a big high school, despite all the research that showed that smaller high schools are much better for the students from high-risk areas. This morning, I listened to another piece about a certain area of the city that is renowned for gang-violence in high-school students. This particular young man who was interviewed has decided to get out of gang activity and try to make a go of his life. When he spoke, he said he partook in gang activity to make money. His mother struggled to provide for his family, so he took the path that he thought was the only way to help provide. Additionally, this week, I found out that Congress is proposing cuts to Head Start. The cuts could close 16,000 Head Start classrooms across the country, affecting 218,000 low-income children. I can’t put into words my indignation. Oh and that the state of Illinois is so in debt that young teachers may never receive their pensions. So, back to the book….
When you read Kotulak's book, he very simply summarizes by saying that education is truly the key to some of these problems. Why? First, because Early Childhood Education has an enormous impact on children in high-risk environments. Why? Because the way the brain is wired during early childhood can either prime a child for success or failure. It's almost that simple. Have a child with a terrible home and no role models? Provide a caregiver who makes a secure attachment and acts as a role model for that child. Reduce the stress in that child’s life and you literally lower the levels of the stress hormone, cortisol in the brain. Cortisol that has the ability, when being continuously produced in high-stressful environments, to change the pathways created in the brain. The effects are worse if the child already has inherited low-levels of serotonin (the happy hormone) from a parent. Kotulak discusses the scientific findings which suggest that certain environmental factors have the ability to change the molecular structure of the brain, affect genes and, wire the brain toward certain tendencies or dispositions. Kotulak summaries the most dangerous environmental factors as including: the breakdown of marriage/family life, teenage pregnancies/mothers, high stress during a pregnancy, and stressful or bad childhood experiences (violent and abusive situations). So, programs like Head Start are extremely important in providing safe environments with loving caregivers and educational programs for the parents. In the future, maybe these children who weren’t provided for and who had no other means of support, routine, love, and education will turn to crime and violence to solve their problems. It seems so clear in my mind what needs to be done. Take care of educators (ensure they receive their pensions for one thing), provide quality early childhood care for all children but especially children and babies from low-income, high-risk areas, and make education a priority. Otherwise the ills of society will continue to grow worse. Invest in children now. “With education you learn how to navigate your world. You learn empowerment. You learn how to articulate your needs and to overcome potential barriers.” (Kotulak, 1997,)

In a wee bit over a week, it will be my birthday. Anyone will tell you that I love my birthday. I guess it's a bit self-centered and narcissistic, but I love it. (I love it even more when I get daffodils....just like Mum used to give me. Boys? Are you listening? That includes you Kyle!)
This year got me thinking. One year ago, on my birthday, I startled this blog. I have, of late, been absent from writing it. I have so many things going on in my brain, that writing, is, actually the last thing on my mind. It's too bad really, because I find it quite therapeutic when I do write. And it saves the stream of consciousness from my mouth when poor Kyle gets home. He just has to read it to know what the heck I was thinking about on any particular day. So, in a year: I started a blog, I co-chaired a Sunday school, I completed a massive practicum project for grad school, (more pages of writing than I have ever written in my life!), and I joined the Wonderworks Children's Museum's board. I watched my two year old have speech therapy and improve in leaps and bounds. He tells me daily, "me love you vewy much..." I cried (many times), when Charlie gave us such a huge fight every morning about going to school (and other things besides), I racked my brains trying to figure out what to change or implement to help the kid feel better. I have observed in the last two weeks, Charlie literally blossom. He is this fun, funny, smart, creative, dare I say it...happy little boy. I should be thanking someone or something bigger than me everyday, since everyday is so much better that I find myself forgetting just how bad it had become. I have watched JP leave behind the world of Lego's and bakughans, and enter the world of g-mail, girls calling, and Warhammer. (Warhammer is another blog for another day. All I will say is sometimes when there are adult men in the Warhammer shop , which is run by a very nice English bloke - who JP idolizes - I like to call it Dork-hammer. Sorry....) But, he loves to paint the little figures and become all creative about the painting. Who can complain about painting? (Well....except when I find permanent paint all over my bathroom towels, in a classic JP attempt to "clean-up"!)
5 years ago, on my birthday, I started my masters in early childhood education. I turned 32 that year, and all the 40 year old PhD students teased me, warning me that I'd be doing a PhD in my 40's, like them. Well, that remains to be seen, but this year on my birthday, my LAST class will start. LAST CLASS!!! No matter that it overlaps with another class. Not a big deal that it occurs during our second busiest time of the year: two of our kids birthdays (and they are not quiet about their birthdays either!), the start of the t-ball season with both boys playing on different teams in different locations (help!),and PREP (the Sunday school program), has to get wrapped up. I don't care how busy I will be, because as of May 6th, I will be finished with the class component of my graduate degree. Big Sigh. After that is the writing of a big project with a committee and oral defense, but I will be so high from 5 years (on and off), of classes that I won't care......
I have a feeling then, that my life is going to change. Not sure how yet, but I just think it will. My boys are getting older. Kyler may start some type of toddler program in the Fall. (That breaks my heart.) I may work a bit of a job that actually pays me!
So, I guess it's true what they say, "beware the Ides of March". At least for me. It was the beginning and this year, the start of the end. And it is a gateway for everything after.

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!)