irrational introspections on motherhood

lakeside

2011-09-24T19:48:00.000-07:00

When I am at the lake I don’t care. I don’t care that the Wii fit calls me obese. I happily wear my tankini. Every day. All day.

I don’t care that there are dishes piled in the sink. Someone will deal with them eventually. The kitchen cabinets in this rental are full to overflowing with plates and cups and glasses anyway.

I don’t care that my children haven’t washed their hair in a week. It’s sticking out at odd angels, and turning an interesting shade of green ... who is there to see it but the fish?

I don’t care about news, or the weather ... it’s sunny here ... why would I need to know about flooding and tornadoes? (As long as they aren’t heading this way)

I don’t care that my kids are surviving on fizzy drinks and crisps. They eat the odd apple, and yesterday I cut up some celery. Tonight I cooked pasta (and added sauce from a jar ... extravagance!)

Today we jumped in the lake. Again and again. And again. The kids and their Daddy fished off the dock. They caught bluegill after bluegill and learnt how to take the hook out without hurting the fish (or themselves.) They caught a massive carp, and marveled at its huge sucking jaws, thankful it didn’t have teeth. The bass evaded Daddy’s line yesterday, but today he was lucky. A happy man, my husband.

I swung in the hammock in the sun, strung between two tall skinny oaks, and thought about reading my book. Instead I closed my eyes and listened to my children and the lapping of the water. And I slept.

Later I played table tennis with my two oldest girls and we laughed at how bad we were as we spent more energy looking for the ball than hitting it over the net.

We hired a speed boat, pulled the girls along behind on the tube, and watched as they squealed in delight, riding the wake, bouncing. Dipped and bucked. And begged for more.

It’s dusk now, and Daddy and baby girl have just headed back down to the dock. 8 year olds (and 46 year olds) are still excited about the thought of night fishing.

I am going to curl up somewhere with my book and relax.

I love my holiday.

Pentecost

2011-06-12T10:24:00.000-07:00

Today is the first Sunday of Pentecost in the Anglican Church calendar.
The day we celebrate God sending the Holy Spirit to his disciples. A day of praise and thanksgiving. N.T. Wright says it quite well.
Our Church encourages the wearing of red, symbolizing fire, or clothes from another country (though I don't think they mean the "made in China" label), which reminds us of the disciples speaking in foreign tongues.
As usual in the Harris House, things were going less than smoothly this morning. Due to a late night, we were all tired and grumpy. "Tongues of Fire" has a different meaning when you're dealing with my sleep deprived young.
We had plenty of red rimmed eyes, but a distinct lack of red clothes.
Jessica has one red t shirt. "Don't Talk To Me" it proclaims in jagged black script. How apt, I mused, as she snarled at me over breakfast.
Rebecca has a red England Football shirt. "I'm not wearing THAT" she declared in a tone which refused debate. Okay then.
Andy found his sole red shirt at the bottom of the dirty laundry pile. I don't think so.
Of course Bethany and I had pre-planned our Sunday wardrobe (2 out of 6 ain't bad) and at the last minute Andy remembered an old red T Shirt which he donned happily.
Church looked bright and cheerful this morning.
Happy Pentecost

hands up if you know the answer!

2011-02-07T16:27:00.000-08:00

When I was in my early 20’s I took a job masquerading as a primary school teacher in an Independent fee paying school in Central London.
I don’t really know why the head teacher employed me, as I was vastly inexperienced and under-qualified. I blame it on the fact that her hormones were all over the place (she was 7 months pregnant) and she didn’t really know what she was doing.

So there I was, in a classroom of over bright over achieving 10 year olds, making it up as I went along. This was before the world wide web, so I had no resources other than the local library, books on the classroom shelves, and mine and my flatmates imaginations.
I could cope (just about) with the arts. I remember with fondness a project we did on Zaire.
But I also had to teach maths.
When I look back on those months, I am amazed I didn’t die of a stress related illness.
Those of you who know me well will testify to my utter incompetence in this subject.
There were days when I would be writing a sum on the board, one I had painstakingly reviewed the previous evening with my flatmate Sally, (a fortifying whisky in one hand, a cigarette in the other ... and I didn’t smoke .. this is how bad things were) and my mind would go blank. I could not remember how to do it. So I would say to David, an incredibly clever 10 year old with glasses and a posh Home Counties accent who sat in the front row, “David, would you like to show the class how you would answer this particular problem?” And David would happily take over while I slumped in my chair and sweated.
And then my worst nightmare ... I have a vivid recollection of going into a major panic the night before I was due to start teaching fractions. At midnight I called Andy, sobbing, and over the phone he guided me through a simple lesson on the basics. I cannot remember how things went the next day, maybe it was so bad my brain deleted the memory.
I was eventually sacked. A good thing, all considered.
And now here I am, attempting to teach my 12 year old daughter math. And again, I am getting hysterical over fractions. And, just like last time, Andy is coming to my rescue. I think I married the right man.

The homeschool journey part 2. What On Earth Am I Doing?

2010-11-14T20:11:00.000-08:00

I have moments of intense anxiety.
I often feel that I am no good at this.
I don’t know what I am doing.
How can I expect to make a go of homeschooling when I am the most disorganized person I know? (and I know some pretty disorganized people).

I am not a morning person. We do not have a regular start time for school. If we begin before 10 I am happy. (well, when I say happy, I mean slightly less stressed)
I am selfish with my time. I admit that if I had my way I would be reading constantly. And not books about how to mark essays, or how to really understand how your child learns. I would be reading the new Kate Atkinson from cover to cover.
Instead I am reading it covertly whilst sitting on the toilet, taking the longest pee in history, my bum numb and my toes stricken with pins and needles and a small voice echoing up the stairs “... Mummy, where are you?”
And why did I decide it would be a good idea to teach the unteachable child at home? If the Special Ed team at the local school couldn’t get her to concentrate, why the heck did I think I could?
I love her to bits. She is adorable in her quirky mind blowing ways. She makes me laugh. She makes me cry. She makes me scream into my pillow. I fight her every step of the way and at the end of a long torturous day she has produced a smudgy misspelled illegible piece of work not worthy of a 5 year old.
And then I remember that this is my unique Jessica I am dealing with. The child who cannot do what the book is asking her to do. Her brain isn’t wired like that. So the next day, I make it easier on both of us by acknowledging this. And I ask her to make a cartoon strip of the first 8 chapters of Anne of Green Gables (why didn’t LM Montgomery do it that way in the first place?)
Most days she does very little. But I attempt to reassure myself that she did very little at school too. And I know she is happier doing it at home.
And I tell myself (As people helpfully remind me) that it is early days yet. I am beginning to worry ever so slightly that I cannot keep churning out that trite phrase forever.

I know that the youngest is learning. Her reading is improving almost daily. This 7 year old, who, a month ago tested a reading age of 5, will hopefully, by the time she is 8, have the reading age of a 6 year old (as if all that actually matters anyway ... for goodness sake .. she loves books, what more could I want?)
The oldest is of course extremely capable and I worry about her too ... I worry that I have taken her out of a system where she was challenged and brought her into a place of chaos where she can underachieve to her hearts content. She writes and reads and does her math. I need to make sure she does it all well.

I love to read to them. That is a plus. One of the easiest parts.
The rest is bloody hard work. The keeping up with them. The making sure they are getting it done. The checking, critiquing, planning. The worry that I am not checking critiquing and planning enough ...
I can manage the guilt trips and the panic attacks quite well.
I need to enjoy jumping off the ledge a bit more ... the whole free fall thing.
I need to learn patience and grace and I need to learn to trust God. He is, after all, the reason I am doing this.

My First Week Back At School

2010-09-08T11:19:00.000-07:00

Monday.
A day of planning and attempting to find the dining room table and floor.
Relieved to eventually rediscover both.

Tuesday.
No morning rush. How wonderful.
Children's responses to Day 1 ranged from delight to apathy to incredulity.
Realized that much of the "I just want to sit in this corner and play my computer games" attitude was less to do with my capabilities as a teacher and more to do with the fact that they had just had 3 months of doing absolutely nothing at all (other than sitting in this corner playing their computer games). A brief period of adjustment would, of course, be necessary.

Wednesday.
I like the stress free mornings ... I really do ...
Child 3 got up with no prompting, had breakfast, emptied the dishwasher for me, fed and cleaned out her rabbits, brushed her teeth and got dressed.
This was obviously too much for her delicate constitution.
She informed me she was incapable of reading her book due to exhaustion. So we settled for attempting a chapter of her writing book. This was not successful either, owing to an attack of some strange hitherto unheard of malady, which manifested itself through the rolling of eyes and the falling off chairs in dramatic fashion (accompanied by unnatural grimacing, general groans and moans and a fierce clutching of the head as though in intense pain).
I eventually resorted to adapting the requirements of the lesson in the book to suit her particular learning style, and the assignment was duly completed with no fuss.
Later in the day the chapter of Anne of Green Gables was started. An hour and thirty minutes later two pages had been read. After a degree of internal struggle, (and to her delight and my relief), I read the rest of the chapter to her.
Child 4 wrote in her journal, and drew a picture to accompany the story. She completed a word search and read a book to me.
Child 2 did everything she was told to do and more.

Thursday was Taekwondo Day. Child 3 and 4's exuberance for the subject was dampened slightly by the lesson's start time of 8.40 am. I was extremely pleased, upon retrieving them, to discover they had enjoyed it immensely.
Children were slightly miffed to learn there would be school upon the return home. Surely a martial arts lesson at that unearthly time in the morning constituted a full days work?

Friday
child 3 familiarized herself with her new math workbook. Her enthusiasm was in no small part due to the knowledge that the work can all be completed using her beloved computer.
Child 4 was introduced to math manipulatives. 1st Grade in school did little to promote an understanding of numbers for her, so maybe she and I can learn from the beginning together.
Child 2 happily got on with all her assignments.

How does your garden grow?

2010-05-19T06:16:00.000-07:00

I love gardens. I especially like the old fashioned English country gardens. Unplanned beds of pretty wildflowers, purple wisteria rampantly thrusting its way up old brick buildings, massive oak trees, bramble hedges and ivy ... you know the thing.
I love the idea of gardens. The way you can plan how a piece of land will look. How you can dig up the earth, plant a few seeds, water it and then, a few weeks later something will grow. And a few years later, you will have a garden.
Trouble is, I don't like gardening. Can't stand it in fact.
I used to have more energy and enthusiasm for it, but I think I got discouraged by slugs, insects and weeds. Why spend hours making yourself hot and sweaty and exhausted, only for your efforts to be thwarted by some invasive creature with 6 legs, an unrelenting appetite and an attitude to match?
I mow the lawn. I take the shears to the holly bushes, which soak up the rain and grow like Jacks beanstalk if given half the chance.
I gave up weeding for lent (several years ago). I occasionally spray some phosphate free pesticide on the roses, in a vain attempt to slow down the advances of our colony of japanese beetles.
And those butterflies, which look so delightful, as they flutter about, dodging Rebecca's net. I wish she could catch the buggers, as they seem to have laid all their eggs in my one hanging basket of geraniums, and now the sodding caterpillars are munching their way enthusiastically through my lone attempt at prettifying my deck.
This year, I thought I would dig up a bit of earth round by the side of the house and, with Rebecca's assistance, tossed in a few seeds. The information on the packets said we would be growing carrots and lettuces. The directions also called for full sun. Too bad I dug up the bed before the leaves came out on the massive maple. Oh well ... we will see what Mother Nature can do with what she's been given.
I do have my little herb garden of course. I like to add a touch of thyme and a dash of rosemary to omelets and the like. And there's nothing like new potatoes cooked with fresh mint.
I planted tomatoes too. But I forgot to take the drainage plug out the bottom of the pot, so I think they may have drowned. The mistake has now been rectified, but did I act swiftly enough?
As with everything in my pathetic excuse for a garden, only time will tell ...

Another take on the Love of a Good Book

2010-04-06T05:03:00.000-07:00

There is much written about getting your family to read.

I have read blogs about well adjusted, functional families who read until their eyes seize up in their brains. Babies who were born clutching 'Step Into Reading Level 2' books. Children who shun TV and computer games for the written word, and who can be found at all hours of the day and night clasping a book to their bosom, avidly devouring fiction, poetry, biographical tomes etc etc etc ... kids who are so eager they literally EAT books ... spit staples, chew words and swallow chunks of meaty prose.
OK ... maybe not.
Is it just me, or do others out there get a little ... is the word I'm looking for ... jealous? of the parents whose children are such wonderfully avid readers?

I thank my friend Sherri for pointing me in the direction of Pioneer Woman and her blog on a homeschooled family who read like there's no tomorrow. Her Idyllic world really does seem like a form of heaven. Children who go to bed early and curl up with a good book. Kids who, once their alloted screen time is up, dutifully trot to the bookshelf and select a new read. Kids who delight in visits to the book store, library or ... anywhere books can be found.
I love to read. I really do. And I would gladly give my new reading glasses for my kids to be as keen as me. (yes, reading glasses ... finally I have made it to Middle Age)

My children, like those of Pioneer Woman, are surrounded by books. Shelves and shelves of the things. They too are taken to places where there are even more books. Books stores. Second Hand book stores. Book fairs. Libraries. They too have been read to from a young age. They have a mother who read while they were in the womb, read while in labour. If the actual process of giving birth hadn't been so painful I would have read on the delivery table. If it was legal I would read while driving. I read whilst cooking, cleaning, gardening ... I read therefore I am.

My children read because they have to.

My oldest, now 15, used to read. But then puberty, followed closely by adolescence, rendered the hobby unfashionable. Who has time to read when there's all this texting to be done? And she was put off reading for a while after I, perhaps ill advisedly considering her delicate hormonally unbalanced condition, encouraged her to read Meg Rosoffs "How I Live Now" A truly wonderful book, but void of a traditional happy ending. My then 12 year old daughter was outraged, incensed that I had made her fall in love with the characters, forced her to become so entrenched in their world that she was unable to cope when things went wrong in their lives (actually I blame Meg ... she's the one who writes so well that we can't help falling in love with her characters)
My daughter sobbed and sobbed. She had wanted a fairy tale ending. She told me she was not ever going to read another book which did not include "and they lived happily ever after" on its final page.

My second oldest daughter was an avid reader. She would devour novels and poetry. She still does read, but not as much as she did. Her new laptop took over ... who has time to read when you can watch all those online episodes of The Simpsons ?

My third daughter has never liked to read novels. I have tried and tried to get her to settle down with a good book. I have read with her, to her, given her time and space and all the encouragement I can, but she just isn't into reading "stories".
She does,however, love the new Anime style of literature. And publishers seem to have cottoned on that there is a market out there. You can even get Anime Harry Potter these days. And writers too are becoming increasingly aware of children who can be drawn into a story by starting it with animation, then switching to prose, then back and forth, for instance G.P.Taylors series . She has also been forever interested in "fact" books ... big fat hard back books about Egypt, Wild Cats and How Things Work. And who can resist a book with the title "How Your Body Works" ... the chapters on the gory goings on of the digestive system are well thumbed.

My youngest daughter loves books but is slow to read. I am perplexed by a school system which purports to hold to the philosophy "every child is an individual" - telling parents that children learn to read at their own level; but which then sends out a panic inducing letter informing said bewildered parents that their child is failing a benchmark in reading. A slight conundrum I feel.
But I have no doubt that she will get there eventually. With all the books in this house, she doesn't really have a choice. And until she can form those letters and words herself into sentences that make sense, she always has me to come to. That is if she can persuade me to put my book down for the 5 minutes it takes to help her with hers.

Feet

2010-02-13T20:10:00.001-08:00

I had my first ever pedicure last summer. I don't tend to go in for treating myself ... and besides, I have sensitive feet.
But my friends persuaded me to accompany them for a foot pampering session and so I blissfully sat in a comfy massage chair while my feet were gently jostled in a miniature bathtub of hot bubbly water, and a strange woman who could not speak English attacked my toes with sharp instruments of torture (which, strangely, did not hurt). After savaging my cuticles with a vicious looking pair of pliers, she rummaged around under my neglected nails, removing all manner of sediment which had been building up over the years (sock fluff, sand from the occasional beach holiday, food ...) and then, in a luxuriating frenzy of manipulation, she massaged ointment into the souls of my willing feet. Lastly, my nails were treated to the application of a coat or two of pretty coloured polish. If feet could smile, mine would have been grinning from ankle to toenail- tip.
We are now deep within the heart of a mean and never ending winter. Snow has fallen. Snow on snow on snow. On snow. During the day my feet are encased in boots. At night, when i remove them, my socks stick to the hard cracking craters which used to be the soles of my feet..
My nails look like yellowing lumps of a non-specific hard cheese, curled up and mouldy at the edges
My toes are sorry pale imitations of their summer time selves. flaccid and starved of vitamin D.
I could zest lemons with my soles. Like the Beltway, my heels have potholes.
And it doesn't look like spring will ever be here.
When it eventually arrives, with it's twittery birds and yellow daffodils, my feet will hide in shame.
Not for me the flimsy flip-flops or strappy sandals.
Maybe I should have my boots surgically implanted onto the ends of my legs. Or book twice weekly pedicures from now until September. Do they have pot hole filling machines in nail salons?

The Story of a Shelter Dog

2010-01-18T16:09:00.000-08:00

Everybody who owns a shelter dog has a story to tell.
This is mine.

We didnt need another dog.
We already had Addie, our 2 year old docile collie cross, acquired when Ellie volunteered at a local animal shelter for her school community service hours. (A warning to parents ... don't let your child do volunteer hours at pet store adoption days)

I was the one who wanted another dog.
I was the one who spent endless hours looking at webposts of adorable little puppies.
I was the one who made the decision that Billy was the dog for us.

So, one bright and sunny January morning in 2008, I put a new dog crate in the back of the van and set off to bring Billy home.
Even at 13 weeks he was long legged and gangly. All bones and a whippy tail. His mother was a pure bred border collie. We weren't sure about his father ... (maybe a mutant from another planet?)
On the way back he cried and yipped and wouldn't settle.
When we arrived home, I got out. I let Addie out. Then, somehow, I closed and locked the doors to the van. Leaving the key in the ignition. And Billy still in his crate in the back. And we didn't have another key.
Maybe that was a sign that things were not going to be easy ...

Billy took an age to toilet train. I had never had a boy dog before, but surely it wasn't normal for him to wander around the house, leaving a trail of pee behind him? A sort of join-the-dots from the living room, through the dining room and into the kitchen ...

And the longer his legs grew, the further onto the counter tops he could reach. Nothing was safe. He would grab and demolish a stick of butter within seconds. He seemed to have a penchant for uncooked pasta. Even raw potatoes weren't safe. And bread ... He was still only about 18 weeks old when I found him , looking rather ill, having consumed an entire loaf of pre-cut bread, packaging and all. He wandered around the kitchen in a state of discomfort for several minutes, his stomach bulging, looking not unlike a cartoon dog which has just eaten a loaf of bread (I almost expected to see the brand name through his fur). Then he began to throw it up, slice by perfect slice; he hadn't bothered to chew it, so it came out as it had gone in.
We called him Alien ... he was like the creature from the film ... he would stretch his neck out, further and further, his mouth would open, his teeth would protrude and "snap", the food was gone.

His worst trait by far, though, was his love of socks. He would grab them and run, and sit, and chew. And swallow.
Inevitably, one got stuck in his digestive system. Surgery was the only way to retrieve it. It was not a cheap option.

But even the pain of surgery, and the mortification of having to wear a cone to prevent him from biting his stitches did not stop Billy from eating socks.
We were saved by a website which suggested feeding your dog hydrogen peroxide, which causes them to vomit.
So, for several months, until he thankfully grew out of the habit, we would force hydrogen peroxide down his gullet whenever a sock went missing. The eaten sock would be retrieved, undamaged but covered in slimy gloop. On several occasions, two, three, and sometimes four socks would be regurgitated in one sitting.

Billy isn't all bad. He and Addie are great friends, and even the cat tolerates him with something which could almost be, but probably isn't, affection.

Even at 60 pounds he still acts like a lap dog, and thinks nothing of scrambling onto my knees for a cuddle.

He and Addie are great guard dogs, growling and barking ferociously at cold callers and unknown visitors. Unfortunately they also growl and bark ferociously at friends and the pizza delivery guy. Some work needs to be done there ...

One day I am hoping he will grow out of his perpetual puppyhood, sit and stay on command and leave unattended dishes alone in the kitchen.
Until then, the words which are most likely to be heard emminating from our home, at very high volume, are "BILLY GET DOWN!!"

Should I be worried...?

2010-01-03T18:14:00.000-08:00

Should I be worried that my 11 year old gave her 6 year old sister a sleeping pill today?
I was a little surprised to find her snuggled up in bed at 3pm, but put it down to the recent late nights and the freezing cold day. Even I spent an hour snoozing under the duvet. But then my little one fessed up that she had been given a small white pill on a spoonful of strawberry jam "to make me go to sleep"
Stern words were had with both girls. Don't take pills from strangers or big sisters unless Mummy says its OK. Don't give your little sister a sleeping pill ... unless I say so.

How concerned should I be that my 11 year old doesn't want to read?
The snow days in the run up to Christmas (sorry ... "winter") break meant a joyful reprieve from a book report which had not been started let alone completed. Two whole weeks, even with the interruption of Christmas, new presents and days filled with computer games should be plenty of time to read a book and construct the report. But no. The book has not been read. School starts tomorrow. The report was mangled together this afternoon, with tearful protestations and half hearted gestures of defiance and defeat (and that was just me). Wikipedia book summaries are a dreadful and necessary evil. I promise that next time she WILL read the book ...

How many other parents have an 11 year old child who cannot sleep? Who creeps on silent feet, avoiding the creaking stair: stealthily slipping through the kitchen (helping herself to an apple, or a slice of bread) and seats herself at the computer desk. While we all sleep and dream, Jessica plays her games and drifts from one artificial world to the next.
So we treat her insomnia with over the counter "natural sleep aids".
But sometimes they don't work as thoroughly as we would like them to.
And we resort to other methods.
The one we are using at the moment relies on Jessica's sweet gullibility and guileless innocence.
We informed her that we did not want her to play her computer games at night. We told her that as she was repeatedly going against our wishes regarding this, we had resorted to a drastic measure. We had decided to set an alarm. Every time she sat down and attempted to use the computer between the hours of bed time and awake time, an alarm would sound in our bedroom, alerting us. To add weight to our deception, we installed a screen saver which had big red letters proclaiming "ALARM SET" on a continual loop.
Jessica was horrified and outraged. Bethany found her hunting in our bedroom for an "off" switch to the alarm. Of course there was none. She eventually went to sleep, but woke up a few hours later. Her usual nighttime routine had been rendered unavailable, so she lay in bed and sobbed. This woke Rebecca, who came through and got me. And so I lay beside her and held her in my arms until she drifted back to sleep.
Jessica is an ingenious child. I am sure she will find other ways to occupy her sleepless nights. As long as they are not too dangerous and within the law I suppose we will cope, and find ways to deal with them as and when they occur.

how to get your blog noticed by more than just your Mother

2009-10-17T17:54:00.000-07:00

I am a frustrated writer.
I write a lot, and blog quite often.
I write about my family, my pets and events that occur in my life.
I leave it up to others as to whether I write well.

I love to write. But the reason I am frustrated is because not many people read my blog. The hits are few and far between, and sadly mostly include my mother, my best friends, my husband and occasionally my children,who are usually mortified by my anecdotal perception of their lives.

So how do I get more people to read my blog?

1) Get endorsed by a famous real life writer

I read voraciously. All genres of fiction. I have favourite writers. One of them is Meg Rosoff
Over the summer I was reading her latest book, "The Brides Farewell" and loving it. When I read something I enjoy, I usually try to get to know the author by checking out blogs, interviews and websites. This time, I even looked her up on facebook, and low and behold, there she was.
So I messaged her that I had just read the book and then asked her to be my friend.
For some reason she accepted the request.
We aren't bosom buddies. She is a busy author, writing her fourth novel, with real friends, real interests and a real life. I am just a name on her friend list. I wouldn't expect it to be any more.
But she did message me. And she wrote these words:

HI LYNNE, LIKE YOUR BLOG

So there it is ... praise from a famous author. Thank you Meg!

(And by the way ... Mum, friends and kids ... read her, she's good.)

2) Write about controversial topics

So far, the most controversial subject I have handled is drying my laundry outside (see "Be Green -flaunt your underwear"). I am more of a "hey this is my life, it may seem boring, but I will try to entertain you while I tell you about it" sort of writer, rather than a " THE ICE CAPS ARE MELTING " blogger (This may indeed be true, but I will leave it to others to write about it)

3) Make stuff up

This can stand alone, or go hand in hand with # 2.

For example, look at this.
A strange and undeniably attention seeking rant at a government agency few of us have on our Christmas card list.
Upon reading her blog we feel an immediate righteous indignation on her behalf. How dare anyone be treated so appallingly?

But was she?

The TSA responded using their own blog, posting the CCTV footage of the woman's ordeal, and showing that most of the woman's claims were not true.

and so the debate will go on. The woman's blog was eventually temporarily shut down to prevent it crashing due to an overload of viewers.

Hmmm. Food for thought. I guess if something like that happened to me, I might blog it, but I would have to keep it simple, and I don't think I have it in me to exaggerate to that extent. That is what fiction writing is for.

4) Looking good

I am not computer savvy. I admit this. So when I started my blog, I went with the basic package, and although I have tweaked it here and there along the way, (at one point I added pictures of my dogs ... but I don't know how to link them to the blogs in which they feature so they are just sitting there on the front page) it's still pretty flat. I don't have the know how to make it look better, and I don't have a queue of helpful web designer friends lining up to assist me. So for now this is all you get. Maybe one day I will be in the same league as those super bloggers who have thousands of hits a week because they look pretty and exciting. And maybe one day you will click on my blog and find links to my previous posts, instead of having to scroll back through page after page. Maybe I should take a few lessons in web design and management, but, as those of you who know me can testify, I am not very good at following directions, advise or ... anything, really.

So I will keep on blogging. My Mother will keep on reading my posts and responding as any indulgent Mother should: with praise, encouragement and unquestioning love. My friends will (hopefully) enjoy what they read and comment every now and then as and when they feel led to do so. My husband will continue to be the subject of my funnier posts, just because he is who he is (and I love him for it) My kids and pets will continue to feature regularly in what I write because they are so much a part of my life.
And Meg Rosoff will continue to be one of my favourite authors.

The Tale of Two Bunnies

2009-10-14T11:28:00.000-07:00

I have been reluctant to write this blog. Every time I begin, disaster strikes and I find myself dealing with desolate sobbing children, rabbit bones, back-flipping bunnies and batteries in a toilet full of poo.

So I am wondering what will happen next?
Will Addie succumb to her natural and not so well concealed desire to eat one of the rabbits? Will Lucky, our huge orange cat, succeed in his attempts to catch a squirrel and this time actually manage to get one into the house? Will Billy go from bad to worse? (though how this refuse-rummaging, leftover-lunging, boom-bass-barking dog could get any worse I do not know.)

I will start to type. But I may have to leave it half way through to deal with some tragic malady which seems to accompany the Harris family and our ever growing zoo.

Jessica got two rabbits for her birthday. Two cute fluffy balls of fur with bright eyes and floppy ears. She named them Salt and Pepper, and they soon grew accustomed to being prodded, squeezed and generally loved to within an inch of their lives.

They resided in a large blue cage in the carport, and were fed hay and rabbit pellets and the occasional dandelion leaf which, when poked into their faces, disappeared like paper in a shredder. They didn't seem that interested in radishes or lettuce, but otherwise we were living in a Beatrix Potter wonderland of cottontails and twitchy whiskers.

Little did we know that we would soon be leaving the enchanted world of Potter and entering the manic crazed nightmare of Poe.

It all happened the day after Andy left for two weeks in England. I was alone with 4 girls 2 dogs, two baby rabbits a huge orange cat and a hamster called George.

On that fateful Monday morning I saw two girls off to school, fed two dogs and went outside to feed the bunnies. But there was only one bunny there. The cage floor was tilted and had slid half out. Salt was quivering in the corner. No sign of little Pepper.

I had to tell Jessica, who was obviously and understandably utterly heartbroken.

Later, as I cleared away the hay which had fallen out of the cage, I found several splatters of fresh bunny blood, and, rather scarily, the only remains of Pepper. A very small cheek and jaw bone, complete with intact tiny teeth.
I did some research and came to the conclusion that a raccoon had, with all the cunning and dexterity they possess, fiddled with the catch and broken into the cage, slid out the floor and grabbed the bunny.

So from then on, every night when darkness fell, Salt was brought through the house and onto the back deck. And, just in case the raccoon was even more cunning than I could give him credit for, once the dogs were securely in their crates we would bring the cage into the kitchen. The nighttime routine was a long and laborious one, but somehow I felt better knowing that the leftover bunny was safe.

All was well once more. We cursed the food chain. We prayed for Peppers little bunny soul and we cuddled Salt to make up for the loss of his playmate. Life goes on

But then, on Friday evening:
"Mummy?"
"Yes Rebecca?"
"Salt's got a nose bleed"

I groaned in disbelief and dashed outside to find a traumatized bundle of fluff blowing blood bubbles and wheezing pathetically. On closer examination it was discovered that he was bleeding form a nasty gash to his lip. Upon interrogation of the 6 year old child in the family, it was ascertained that she was investigating if rabbits could do back flips. Apparently they can't.

We spent that Friday evening at the vet where we were charged an inordinate amount of money for being reassured that no treatment was necessary. We took a wrong turn coming home and wondered, haphazardly, into Maryland before I called someone less directionally challenged than myself to guide me home.

Some days later I drove back out to the bunny lady and bought another rabbit for Jessica. Pepper # 2 is doing remarkably well and, at the time of writing, has no visible signs of injury.

And if you are wondering about the batteries in the toilet ..? You don't want to know.

Booster Mum

2009-09-14T11:32:00.000-07:00

A Booster Mum is someone who doesn't have enough to do. She used to have an executive job in the City, and left the house before dawn every morning, coffee in one hand, brief case in the other: power suit, F.M shoes and scraped back hair. She met her husband occasionally for dinner, sex and the odd prearranged weekend. One day she had a baby. Two days later she went back to work, leaving her newborn with the nanny.
She will probably have expressed her milk regularly throughout her working day; discreetly, so as not to shock her male co-workers.
Zombified but diligent to the last she will have given presentations, worked through lunch and one day even managed to get home in time for her husband to impregnate her with baby #2.
At this point in her life she will have given serious consideration to her future.
Option 1: return to work full time, leaving her babies in the care of her nanny. Option 2: return to work part time.
Option 3: put her career on temporary hold and stay at home with her growing family.
Option 1 was already turning sour with nanny making plans to return to her native South America. Option 2 would be a disaster ... all her male colleagues standing in the wings gleefully awaiting her downfall. So Booster Mum chooses option 3.
A few years later she adds a third child to her offspring, finds a part time nanny and, once her children are of school age applies herself to making her fellow parents feel worthless frumpy and lazy by being that officious, ultra organized mum who chairs as many parent run committees as she possibly can. She may no longer be wearing the power suits of her past life, but she takes the time and money to dress to impress the slovenly mums, making them ultra conscious of their baggy sweats, unkempt hair, and yesterdays mac and cheese stains on their faded college T-shirts.
She stands center stage at PTA meetings, hair highlighted to within an inch of its natural life, lipstick just the right shade of "Look at Me" red and, flashing her ingratiating smile, tells us mere mortals what a wonderful opportunity it is to serve the school by volunteering endless hours of our so called free time to be a treasurer, a vice president, a chaperon. They need people to organize tag day, hospitality, a car wash, scrips, publicity ... and on and on ....
And Booster Mum is there at every event. Her child is the one with the most merit points at the end of the year (because, as we know, parent involvement may not increase grade point average but it does produce the suck up kids who get the pin, the medal, the certificate and the "special mention".)
And where am I?
I am helping my kids with their homework, trying to entice them away from the TV, taking them to soccer practice, gymnastics, making dinner, chatting to my friends on facebook, walking the dogs, shopping, writing, painting, meeting friends, ENJOYING MY LIFE!
And my kids may not get that special mention. They may not be the one wearing the medal at the end of their Freshman year. But they are reasonably content.
The school may need the booster and all the money it can raise, but it doesn't need another Booster Mum.

Messing About on the Water

2009-08-30T14:54:00.000-07:00

I don't like doing things which cause me discomfort, pain, fear or embarrassment. I have never bungee-jumped or swung upside down from a rope swing. I stay away from zip-lines and ropes courses and until I was 41 I had managed to avoid roller coasters. My one and only (thus far) roller coaster ride was at Busch Gardens, when Beth persuaded me to ride The Loch Ness Monster with her. I was sort of OK while we strapped ourselves in. I was moderately fine as we rode the initial slow and steady almost vertical climb to the first peak. I think I even managed to smile reassuringly at Beth as she squeezed my hand and asked if I was alright.
But then we reached the top of that first peak and what goes up must come down. I have never traveled so fast in such a short space of time. I began to scream, and didn't stop. I don't think I opened my eyes much at all. I was aware at one point of hearing an endless screech as we raced at death defying speed up and down and round the loop and back and forth and over and up again ... and I opened my eyes to discover that we were not upside down as my brain had been telling me, but in fact on a straight and fairly slow stretch of rail. Beth was looking at me, murmuring "Mum!" in that "you're embarrassing me" voice that kids develop when they reach 8. And the people in the car in front had turned in their seats and were staring at me. So I grinned sheepishly (a terrified sheep, way up in the air, far far from home) and closed my mouth on the scream. But then we were off again, up, down, side to side, eyes closed it all blurred into the one horrifying "I'm gonna DIE" moment. And then it was over. I had done it.

I feel sort of the same way about water based activities. Give me a boat and I need to make sure it will stay upright with minimal rocking. I can cope with a canoe or a kayak but only on calm flat water. I don't like jet-skis (all that power and speed ... scary) I wouldn't dream of water ski-ing ... for a start I probably wouldn't be able to get upright. Then there is the whole balance thing. And the obvious: water skiing belongs to beautiful, young, fit and energetic people. This no longer includes me.

But somehow, I found myself tubing again this summer. I guess it was a combination of the girls all wanting me to do it and a 'you'll regret it if you don't try' feeling. They were all having so much fun. I didn't want to miss out.

So there I was, attempting to climb from the side of a boat into a round piece of rubber and plastic which was moving infuriatingly; continuously backing away as I put my foot in, then bobbing uncontrollably as my other foot stretched out and I would end up in the water rather than sitting comfortably on the top. How do the children do it? They are so certain of their bodies. They are young enough to know that if they ask their arms, legs or torso to do something, it happens. If they want to sit or turn or twist they do. If I want to do those things my body says no, or ignores the command completely. A sort of "I cant hear you" fingers-in-the-ears thing.

I eventually found myself lying spreadeagled unflatteringly on the tube, tugging unsuccessfully on the handles, trying to lever my unwilling body into a more comfortable and aerodynamic position. After a few minutes I gave up and we set off, slowly at first, the children asking every few seconds if I was OK. My beached whale impression was going down well, I thought, as Bethany took some photos and grinned cheekily from the boat. Ellie was suppleness personified on the tube next to mine. Flexible, beautiful and ready for speed. I agreed to let Andy increase the throttle a bit and we churned through the water like a boat towing an attractive 15 year old and an elephant.

But then something wonderful happened. As the speed increased, we were suddenly riding the wake and I was no longer a large ungainly lump in the water, but a weightless soaring nymph. Alas it didn't last. The children and their father were plotting my downfall and minutes later I was hearing the dreaded words "BUMPY" shouted form the boat, reaching my ears above the roar of the engine and the whoosh of the waves. Spray hit my face, the tube bounced and bounced and ... I gave up and let go, flying back in the air and into the water, probably very ungracefully. I was under the water for seconds and tugged back to the surface by my life jacket. I used the minutes while Andy turned the boat to lie relaxing on my back, eyes closed to the sun, tranquil. Alone. The peace was not to last. The boat returned, with the sounds of shrieking children ... "That looked great Mum!"
As I lugged my body, no longer weightless, back onto the boat I decided that that was enough excitement for this summer.

Bikes, Beccy and Billy Bonehead

2009-07-09T08:50:00.000-07:00

My youngest has just learned to ride her bike. She became independent of her training wheels on July 4th. How apt.
I view this momentous achievement with mixed feelings. I am pleased because, at last, we are able to go on family bike rides without tears of frustration when training wheels get stuck in mud or spin uselessly in graveled ruts on the trails. But I am sad because the last of my babies is growing up. Today no need of training wheels, tomorrow no need of Mummy.

To celebrate her new found freedom, we went for a bike ride. Me and three of the girls; Rebecca racing fearlessly along on her little green bike, legs peddling furiously, a smile of utter joy on her gap-toothed face, her big sisters grinning indulgently. We rode far into the woods, and explored the creek, catching fish and salamanders in the net, plopping them into a little bucket. The fish we let go, the memories we'll keep forever.

And that short outing reminded me of how much I like to ride my bike. It also reminded me of how unfit I am.
Once I got to thinking along those lines, I found myself pondering how much Bonehead Billy wold love to run. Really run!
So this morning, I put on my helmet, clipped the leash to Billy's collar, told my daughter not to look so worried and headed out.

As soon as Billy began to grow into his long legs, we knew we had a problem. No way could we give him the exercise he needs with just a couple of 2 mile walks a day. But that, along with ball and Frisbee throwing in the yard, is what he has been getting.
I had thought in the past how fantastic it would be to bike with Billy, but had never had the nerve. He's still not particularly reliable on the leash and tends to lunge enthusiastically after other dogs, people, and any animal or bird we see when out on walks.

Today Billy and I experienced a revelation. We had FUN! Once we had sorted out who was in charge(ME!), and once Billy had decided where he was going to be (at the side of the bike. Not in front. Not behind) we reached respectable speeds.
It was wonderful to hear the clip of his nails and the jingle of his collar tags as he cantered beside me. And occasionally I felt almost relaxed enough to glance down and he looked happy. Tongue lolling, ears flapping: poetry in motion.

The run was not without incident. At first, every bush, fire hydrant and mail-box was seen as a potential landscape for Billy's personal brand of irrigation. And the gardens and flower-beds were wafting tantalizingly tempting aromas of cat, squirrel and "other dog" into the path of his hyper sensitive nostrils. But after a while, the feel of the wind in his ears more than compensated for all his usual doggy outing stuff.

A couple of times I had to stop to let another dog pass. Billy was his usual "I must bark and growl menacingly at this impostor" self; practically garroting himself in frenzied attempts to get at any canine who thinks he possesses equal rights to the trail... Once past these distractions, he ran happily on, nose pointing forward, tail up, smiling his wide-mouthed doggy smile.

And I wouldn't have fallen off. I truly believe I wouldn't, if Billy hadn't seen the cat. Our cat, Lucky. Billy's friend and co-eater-of-all-leftovers-and-as-much-of-Addie's-food-as-they-can-scoff-down-before-she-notices. Lucky was under the van. He emerged to greet Billy, and Billy lunged. The ground came up to meet me in an inevitable fashion. I decided to let the leash go, thus saving myself from any serious tarmac burns. the bruise on my knee and the scrape on my knuckle are enough of a reminder that, while riding a bike with Billy may be exhilarating,it can also be dangerous. But I'm keen to do it again!

the Hamster is Dead! Long Live the Hamster!

2009-06-25T12:27:00.000-07:00

The life expectancy of the average hamster is, so I am told by Wikipedia, about 2 years. In our house, we tend to get through about a rodent a year. Bethany is the chief hamster owner, and is thus often to be found weeping and wailing as we bury yet another of her pets.
Hamster #1 was an overly large albino with a penchant for freedom and a thus uncanny knowledge of the air conditioning vents. Snuggles met his untimely end when Beth was ill and I forgot about him. He starved to death in his cage and was mourned by us all.
Hamster #2 was Squeaky, a little blackberry dwarf. Extremely antisocial, a ferocious finger biter, he was confined to his cage and died alone and unloved a few weeks ago.
Last week we went to the pet store and found George. A cute-as-can-be Black TeddyBear hamster. He is cuddly, sociable and a non biter of human flesh. Long may he reign!

But there are other tales to tell of small pets.Tales which are, shall we say, somewhat less savoury. Stories which may turn your stomach and cause the hairs on the back of your neck to stand on end. Stories that involve Jessica.

Jessica is our chief animal lover. But, as occasionally happens in narratives of love, feelings are not always reciprocated.

Jessica, aged 4, fell head over heels with the two pet mice belonging to the 11 year old daughter of friends. During a family visit to their home, I was approached by Jessica, who stood looking at me with big solemn eyes. She leaned forward, and in a conspiratorial manner whispered "I killed the mice".
I sat quietly for a few seconds, and then asked her to repeat herself. Maybe I had misheard. Surely she had said "I kissed the mice" ... But no.
So I asked her "How?" (Not "why?" ... Maybe I didn't want to know)
And she brought her little hands up, closed her fists tight, and said "I squeezed them"
I closed my eyes and wished I were miles away. For a few seconds,I actually thought
"I wonder if we can leave now and not say anything". I knew this was not really possible. Consequences, however unappealing, must be faced. Before I said anything though, I went upstairs to check the situation out for myself. Maybe they weren't really dead; maybe they were just traumatized. I approached their living quarters and had a brief rush of hope as I saw the lid was firmly in place and even the heavy books on top of the mesh netting were still there. But upon closer inspection, it was indeed as bad as it could be. The mice were well and truly dead.
We were mortified. Jessica apologized. The friends daughter was not as sad as she perhaps should have been under the circumstances (it turned out she had been waiting for them to die anyway as she wanted a pet snake next) We remain friends, and the tale of Jessica and the mice has become something of a legend...

There are other stories.
For example, her fascination with fish.
I would wake to a noise in the night. Suddenly alert to the potential threat of burglars, intruders, rapists I would creep from the bed,and find Jessica hiding behind the sofa, the floor wet and slippery, tiny silvery fish flip-flopping helplessly at her feet.I would gather those I could see and plop them back into their tank. Occasionally in the morning, or the next week I would find the ones I had missed, now hard and crusty, wedged down behind the cushions, or just out of sight behind the sofa.
Sometimes I would be unaware of her nocturnal wanderings and upon the morning find in her bedroom 5 or 6 plastic tumblers of water, neatly placed by her bed, each containing a little fish.
And her affinity with tadpoles frogs and toads. One year she removed nearly all the tadpoles from our neighbours neglected pond and placed them in our paddling pool. We had many, many frogs. And that same year, one particular night,I was awoken by a strange noise. Upon investigation I found all my children sleeping soundly and so returned to bed. But again, a noise disturbed me. This time, It seemed that Jessica had moved. I pulled at her duvet, thinking maybe she was too warm, but it resisted my attempts. So I tugged harder, and as I won the battle, Jess released her hold, opened her eyes wide, and as the duvet landed on the floor, there was revealed a large and ugly toad, nestled up beside her in bed. Maybe she was searching for her Prince Charming?
There are countless episodes of Jessica saving birds, lizards, salamanders ... anything living and breathing. A true lover of wildlife, she has outgrown her heavy handed toddler-hood and now attempts to preserve life as opposed to crush it to death. She has a big heart and cries endlessly when the creatures succumb to injuries or illness. You would think that two dogs a cat and a new hamster would be enough, but no. She wants a bird, or a snake or a gecko. Something else to love. Maybe for her birthday ...

Grammatical Errors -In-Law

2009-05-13T06:55:00.000-07:00

Let's start with a lesson in grammar.
According to The Oxford English Dictionary, a pronoun is "a word used instead of a noun to indicate someone or something already mentioned or known". A personal pronoun is "each of the pronouns in English (I, you, he, she, it, we,they, me , him, her, us and them) comprising a set that shows contrasts of gender".
So, in, for example, the sentences:

"I will put those clothes out for you",
or
"Let me do the vacuuming"
or
"I will do the washing up"
or
"I am happy to mow the lawn"

the personal pronouns are "I" and "me".

In my house recently, for 19 days, there existed a strange phenomenon: another personal pronoun had joined those already in existence. This pronoun had the name "Bob".

"Bob" is a comparatively harmless pronoun. He likes to sit and read, and is particularly fond of mystery novels. He makes a nice cup of tea, and enjoys relaxing in the sun. For his age he is fairly active, and he has been known to walk several miles in one day. He is not as young as he used to be, and is therefore prone to napping, usually in the afternoon. If left to his own devices, he would probably nap for several hours in one stretch.

But Bob is seldom given leave to do as he wishes. His days are made up of a continuous stream of demands and requests. No sooner has he settled into a comfortable chair, opened his book to the relevant chapter, than a voice can be heard calling "Bob?"

As many of you know, I found my In-Laws visit just a tad stressful. I can cope with them for short periods of time, and when one first sees Edna, close to 85 years of age, stoop shouldered, wizened faced, one is tempted to think "ahhh, what a sweet little old lady!" But do not be fooled.
After 24 hours, I was already grinding my teeth and taking deep breaths in an attempt to refrain from telling her where to go (the airport, Afghanistan, Mars).
If she would just behave like an old person everything would be fine (and I know ... that is incredibly ageist of me ... I mean ... how should old people behave? Are we talking drooling, loose dentures and comatose in front of the TV?) Anyway ... I guess what I am trying to say is, she is not an easy person to get along with.
From The continuous demand to be given things to do ... and then when I found a task (often unnecessary) Bob would immediately be instructed to do it.
To her annoying habit of "moving" my furniture and ornaments. If I have my chairs placed in a certain way, I want them to stay like that. Why does she have to move them? And photo frames, vases, candles, ... she repositions them ... sometimes inches, sometimes to completely different locations ... GRRRRR!!
And the vastly irritating need to "own" what she has done. If she cleans the floor, suddenly we are not allowed to walk on it ... "Take your shoes off if you want to walk on my nice clean kitchen floor ..." Well excuse me, but if I want to bring a herd of filthy, mud splattered baby elephants into MY house to walk all over MY kitchen floor then it is MY prerogative!!" I remember when Andy and I bought our first house in England, and I was grateful for Edna's help in the garden. Until I started getting the phone calls asking how her garden was doing? Were we remembering to water her flowers?
So, all in all, I was greatly relieved to say farewell, after 2 weeks and 4 days. My kitchen, my deck, my furniture, my ornaments are my own again. Bob is no longer hanging out my washing, hoovering the stairs or emptying the dishwasher. Well, he probably is, but not in my house. And what they get up to in their own house is nothing to do with me!

Top Ten Rants of the moment

2009-05-12T04:39:00.000-07:00

1) S.O.L's. The acronym stands for "standard Of Learning" tests. They represent what the teachers should be teaching and what the children should be learning. The school puts pressure on the teachers and the teachers put pressure on the children. So my children are getting stressed out for something which doesn't really have anything to do with them. Find another way to assess how well the school performs. Don't use my children as guinea pigs.

2) neighbours who complain about my dogs barking but let their dogs roam the neighbourhood. Get a fence and get a life (and while you're at it, reduce your asking price so someone can buy your house ...)

3) neighbourhood associations which won't let people hang their washing out to dry. Doesn't the climate matter more than seeing a line full of boxers, knickers and bras?

4) neighbourhood associations which won't let me keep chickens, ducks or goats. Chickens and ducks will eat left over food. They provide eggs. Goats mow the grass and provide milk (well, nanny goats do ... and think of the cute factor of all the little baby goats).

5) the fast track isle in the grocery store which keeps telling me I have an "unexpected item in the bagging area." Well I didn't bring my invisible pet elephant to the store today, so it can't be him.

6) a school system which believes all children are the same. Each child is an individual. Treat them accordingly and help those who need help, whether it be academically, emotionally or socially.

7) credit cards. Why am I paying all this interest??

8) strip malls. Why can't America build a few more town centers? And while we're at it, how about a few more pubs, and the odd corner shop. I resent having to get into my car and travel 1 mile, cross an 8 lane road, using up fuel just to buy a gallon of milk and a loaf of bread. And if I had my nanny goat, I wouldn't have to worry about the milk anyway.

9) Best Buy . There is now nowhere else to shop ...

10) people who have top ten rants. Haven't they got better things to do than complain?

To cuss or not to cuss, that is the question

2009-04-19T09:14:00.000-07:00

I like our American friends. They are not that different from our English friends in many ways. Most of them have a head, two arms and two legs. We do stuff together. Watch movies. Drink tea, talk, solve the Worlds problems. We even speak the same language (almost). But sometimes I find myself questioning their reasons for desiring our company. Do they like us, or do they just like hanging out with people from England?
When we had been here about a year, we met a couple who were really into Black Adder. He loved to quote favourite lines at us from the series. As Andy loved it too, hours of endless fun and amusement were derived from this common pursuit. But when the Black Adder scripts were exhausted, we realised we didn't really have that much in common, and the friendship slowly fizzled.
And there are always the people who claim to "just love England!" I have learned to follow this exclamation with the query "Do you know England well?" which often produces the response: "I had a layover in London one time" or "I had a weeks vacation in London" or My wife's family are from Manchester." I hate Heathrow and the thought of being stuck there overnight is terrifying. I love London, and I am happy to chat briefly about which particular sites they took in. I have never been to Manchester. I will probably never go to Manchester. I have no desire to go to Manchester. The person whose wife's family live in Manchester undoubtedly knows more about the city than I do, so that is a non-starter.
Then there are the people who "Just love your accent! Which part of Australia are you from?" I try to be polite, but really!
And then there are the people (you know who you are!) who want to learn about swear words. As if there weren't enough of them in this country. These people (mostly young men) are fascinated by the word beginning with w and rhyming with the guy in the suit who works for a financial institution. And the word oft used by a foppish Hugh Grant in the quintessential English Romantic Comedy. (when he isn't using the F word) And the English word used to describe a certain part of the male anatomy. One tries to be a fount of all knowledge, but I had a pretty staid upbringing. I don't know that many swear words ... really. Perhaps I should start making some up. Confuse the natives. Now that would be entertaining.

chocolate and tea: An offensive diatribe

2009-04-14T06:57:00.000-07:00

My In-Laws are coming to stay next week. This will provide enough fodder for several blogs ... but that is for the future. For now, I am thinking about what I can ask them to bring me from The Old Country.
Of course there are the staples. Chocolate and tea-bags. I have lived here for nearly 10 years, and I have yet to develop a taste for Hershey's. I admire the way Americans can eat it with a straight face ... (ie, no visible grimacing or obvious retching) and they even have a whole theme park dedicated to it. And the famous Hershey's kiss. Why is it called a kiss? I think it may have something to do with distraction. We are lulled into thinking it must be a harmless, sweet goblet of yumminess, all wrapped up in a cute little package. I'd rather have a Glasgow kiss than one of these excuses for chocolate. Do they wrap them individually in silver paper so you can discreetly spit out the offending stuff once you realize it tastes like rancid milk?
Now Cadbury's ... a flake, or a twirl, or even just a bar of the unadulterated stuff ... so smooth and yummy, it just melts in your mouth.
And tea bags. We Brits like strong, flavourful tea. None of your Lipton's rubbish. American tea is rendered almost drinkable by the addition of several tonnes of ice and sugar per jug. We English make a civilized pot of tea and keep it warm by the addition of a fashionable tea cosy. In England, the kettle goes on when we get up in the morning. When one or more are gathered together. When we get back from a trip to the store. In times of crisis. As an antidote to shock. During commercial breaks, (power surges during the intermission of popular TV shows are not uncommon) George Orwell wrote an essay about tea in 1946. Sir Winston Churchill talked of tea with the American ex-pat Lady Nancy Astor in a famous exchange of wit:
Lady Nancy Astor: "Winston, if you were my husband I'd poison your tea"
Winston Churchill: "Nancy, if I were your husband I'd gladly drink it"
So Tea bags and chocolate are definitely on the list.
Along with washing up cloths, oxo cubes, HP sauce, shredded suet, blu-tac, custard powder, custard cremes, and ... I am sure there is more, but can't think what at the moment. Also, if I carry on like this, the in-laws luggage allowance will be used up and they'll only be able to bring enough clothes for one week. Now there's a thought ...

homework for parents

2009-03-29T14:33:00.000-07:00

This weekend 10 year old Jessica needed to get a frame made for her homework ... which was all to do with a famous Virginian. Now, for obvious reasons, my knowledge of Virginian history is limited. I do now know that George Mason isn't just a University. Braddock and Lee aren't just roads, and I even know that Robert Frost isn't just a middle school. But I didn't know who William Henry Harrison was. (Apparently he was a President, but he was only President for 4 days, and he died in office.) So Jess has to find interesting things about this man, and construct a frame, which she will then decorate and label with these interesting facts. This afternoon I went to CVS and bought a sheet of flimsy poster board, and Jess and I got down to the business of stenciling his name and coloring in the stenciled letters.
Then it happened. The man of the house came in and read the homework instructions. And OK, I admit it, I am useless when it comes to following directions. I am missing the part of my brain which enables other people to look at a map and know that if you follow a particular route you can get from A to B (I invariably go from A to D, via Z, then back to B. I can only get there in a direct route when given very precise instructions by Andy. Very precise. Very) The sole instructions I am able to follow are recipe directions, and even then I think its only because I get to eat something at the end (If my teacher had given me a chocolate cake upon completion of math tests maybe things would have been different ... ) Anyway. Suffice to say, I still get confused when I attempt to understand what the teachers want from my children as regards homework. And I had not read what Jess needed this frame for. She needed to stick her head through it (?), dressed as her famous Virginian (help!) So ... we had written his name horizontally not vertically. WRONG! And then Andy gets a brainwave. "I'll make a frame out of wood!"
Of course you will dear!
"It'll only take a few minutes"
Of course it will dear!
Now, I have no problem with Andy making things. He is very handy with wood and a saw and a drill and nails and all that D.I.Y stuff. ( a bit like my Dad, who spent weekends working on little projects, and when my brother, then aged 4, was asked what his Daddy did for a living, said "he makes boxes in the garage") It's just that he is not very good about estimating how long it will take him to do these things. His "few minutes" usually turn into "A few hours" and yes ... he still isn't done. Make no mistake, when it is completed it will be perfect. But Jessica doesn't need a perfect frame when she is a sophomore in High School. She needs it tomorrow.
So, Andy will be working on it later, when he comes back from Church Youth Group. And it will be a very nice frame. Maybe I will post a picture when it gets finished.

Virtual Reality Meets The Real Thing

2009-03-23T10:33:00.001-07:00

Sometimes I wake in the night. I will be asleep and then be not asleep, and it's as if something has woken me. I will look at the clock. 1am. Why did I wake up? Did I hear a noise? And then I become aware that the bed is missing a vital component. My husband. And I fish sleepily around on the floor for my slippers, grudgingly leave my cosy warm cocoon, drag on a robe and clomp down two flights of stairs. And there I find him. Sitting in the dark. Console in hand, worshiping at the alter of the XBox 360. And he will acknowledge me in a peripheral sort of way, and grunt in a manner which suggests he may be upstairs in a few minutes, and I will sigh loudly, clear my throat in a challenging manner and wait. Eventually, after a few more seconds, the game will reach a point where it can be saved, and he will sheepishly trudge up to bed. My husband, also known endearingly, despairingly, jokingly as my 5th child.

We adopted the X Box 360 into our family three Christmases ago. "For the children". The fact that I knew nothing about it did not endear it (or him) to me. I gradually came to accept it, but have never become a real fan. The two younger girls love it, and play all sorts of fun games, including the very odd "Viva Pinata" which I am certain was devised and put together by people under the influence of a controlled substance. I have not been able to ascertain what it is all about, but it is something to do with pinata animals, making gardens and strange mating rituals.

My 5th child is into the mature rated games. He enjoys nothing better than a good old fashioned hero versus the bad guys action adventure type thingy. He parades around in the games with his big guns and macho stance, shooting the aliens/mutants/evil despot in order to save the world. And sometimes he succeeds. And his gotta win this thing at any cost mentality means that he has to keep on playing til the game is over. Could be days. Could be weeks. Thank goodness for the save button or he'd never go to work.

The Wii joined the family unit last year, and this I do enjoy. The children like it because they can play God and construct little worlds of Wii Me's who they then try to spot in the crowd in the tennis games. Andy loves it because he can be competitive and beat the computer and every living human who attempts to play against him. (His competitive nature comes from his mother. The woman who cheats while playing monopoly with her granddaughters).

I am not against video games and computer games. I don't think they are bad for the children (as long as they aren't played all day and night) and some might even be called educational. But they can be addictive. I bought a t-shirt for my 5th child at Christmas, which I thought was quite apt. It says:
Wake up Play video games Have breakfast Play video games Have lunch Play video games Have dinner Play video games Go to bed.
They would if they could. Thankfully school, work, church, soccer, friends, the great outdoors and other such delights exist to keep them from falling into the fatal game trap.

Bondage Barbie and Karma Sutra Ken

2009-03-15T14:13:00.000-07:00

My daughters have always been into Barbies. I love it when they get a new one. All pristine and shiny, wrapped up in a box, yellow hair tidy and neat (gripped and attached to the inside by those razor sharp plastic teeth which takes a strong woman and a sharp pair of scissors to remove), tiny clothes pretty and clean (the skirt a touch to short, the blouse a little too tight)
And after we have removed her from her box (which can take several hours depending on how many small plastic covered pieces of wire she is secured by) there she stands (supported) in all her glory. A brand new Barbie!
I leave my daughter and her new friend to become acquainted, and for the new Barbie to meet all the old Barbies, and I close the door quietly on dreams of my daughter dressing them, brushing their hair, fitting little shoes on tiny feet. They will go to tea parties, walk their little plastic dogs in the park, sit on their plastic sofas and watch plastic TV. Eat brightly painted plastic food with a plastic knife and fork.
Is this what happens in other houses?
Here is what happens in ours:
I find Headless Barbie, submerged in a basin of water in the bathroom, clothes sodden and molded to her improbable body
And look! There is Bondage Barbie, naked and shackled, tied to the bedpost, a look of defeat on her pen-marked face.
And over there? Oh can you see? Someone has found the scissors and cut off all of Barbie's long yellow hair. Poor Bald Barbie won't find a boyfriend now!
And snuggled side by side on the plastic sofa, unable to change the channel on the plastic TV, sit Armless Ken and and Hands-Free Barbie.
Why, I ask myself? Is it some elaborate game of make-believe? Is Barbie sitting with her hands tied behind her back because she has been kidnapped by evil terrorists and is just waiting for Ken to come up with the ransom money? Will there be a tearful reunion and a Happy Ever After?
Or is my daughter into bondage for beginners? Start with Barbies, move onto plush toys and end up chaining neighborhood friends to the fence, all for the fun of it?
We will be monitoring this child's development closely, in hope and anticipation that she will grow out of this phase, but never-the-less fully prepared to call in professional help if and when needed!

A friend just read this blog and commented that her daughter used to baptize her Barbies, which I thought was wonderful!
I then thought of introducing Bondage Barbie to Born Again Barbie ... and came up with this:

Bondage Barbie: Hi
Born Again Barbie: Hey! How are you today?
Bondage Barbie: Oh, you know ... not feeling too good really.
B.A.B: Why is that?
B.B: Well ... I feel as though I'm missing out on something. I just feel empty, you know? As if there is something out there but I just can't reach it.
B.A.B: You need Jesus in your heart
B.B: We have hearts? I thought we were just made of plastic
B.A.B: Don't split hairs ... you know what I mean!
B.B: But how do I get this Jesus? What do I have to do?
B.A.B: You have to ask Him to come and be your friend. Just tell him you're sorry for all the bad things you've done, and that you want to start afresh.
B.B: All the bad things?
B.A.B: Yep!
B.B: Like when I tied Ken to a tree?
B.A.B: Er, yes.
B.B: And when I stole Swimsuit Barbies favorite bikini?
B.A.B: Mmhmm (nods enthusiastically)
B.B: And when I ripped off Singing Barbies head?
B.A.B. (paling slightly) If you are truly sorry, Jesus will forgive you all these things.
B.B: OK! I want to do it! I want Jesus in my heart.
They pray the sinners prayer together, and hug.
As they walk off, arm in arm, conspiratorially:
B.A.B: You might want to think about lowering the hem-line on that dress. And maybe breast reduction surgery?

And so begins a beautiful friendship

A sister Just Gets It

2009-03-05T09:46:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I worry about my children. Do they fight to much? Should I get involved when the shrill screeches of "She stole my shirt" and "She took my hair straightener without asking" reach such decibel levels that the neighbours curtains start twitching and the dogs take cover beneath the sofa? When one child has been playing on the computer for too long and another intervenes. Physically? With fists? When someone has used up her allotted time on the family laptop but STILL won't give it up? "I NEED it to DO my HOMEWORK!!!"
But when I said something the other day Ellie looked at me as if I had two heads.
"Mother" She explained, as though talking to a little child "we're sisters. That's what sisters do"
Well thanks for telling me! And I guess she should know. She's got three. And I only have a brother. We did fight, but not about borrowing clothes, makeup or hair styling equipment. (thank goodness, I hear my mother say)
And the children do seem to get things sorted out by themselves. Bethany for instance has taken to hiding her makeup from Ellie's itchy fingers by secreting the goody bag in Jessica's closet (I am just waiting for the day that Jess discovers this treasure trove and comes down to breakfast made up like a clown)
And The older two have taken to locking their doors against potential predators.
And usually we can straighten out who has a turn, when and for how long with the aid of a kitchen timer (for giving a "times up" reminder) a firm voice from Mummy (we said Rebecca could use the computer after 5 minutes Jessica) and a trusty wooden spoon (just tapping it gently onto your palm works wonders, as they usually remember very quickly how it felt across their knuckles when they didn't take you seriously last time).
And if I needed a reminder of how much they do truly love each other, there was this morning, when a very tearful Jessica came into our bedroom, sobbing that she had just had a very bad dream. As I cuddled and consoled her, I asked what the dream was about.
"I dreamed that I had 10 brothers and sisters and none of them were Beth, Ellie or Rebecca. And I was so sad!"
They may have their falling out. They may not always want to share. They may despair of each others habits. But they couldn't face the thought of not having each other. Love is definitely a sister.

It's Party Time!

2009-02-22T08:44:00.000-08:00

When organising your child's birthday party, here are a few tips to help make things run smoothly.

1) If you order the cake from a bakery, make sure you don't want it iced and decorated on the day the professional decorator is off sick.
2) Don't give candy as prizes. 12 hyper active children jumping off the furniture is bound to end badly.
3) Don't have carpets
4) Keep the dogs away during the party, but let them back in as soon as the kids have gone. This saves on sweeping up debris, especially if your dog is not particular about what he eats (cake, chips, wrapping paper, balloons)
5) Ask older siblings if they can help, and remember to wake them in plenty of time before the party begins
6) Remember to put a piece of candy in between ALL the layers of pass the parcel
7) If playing musical statues, have the cold compresses and band aids readily at hand.
8) Remember to remove the cat from the house before the arrival of the little boy who is allergic to cats.
9) Don't spend a fortune on party bags. It all goes in the trash when the kids get home anyway
10) A bunch of 5 year olds, pins and blindfolds don't mix well. Try "stick the tail on the donkey" instead
11)Have plenty of beer and wine ready for the grown-ups. (The occasional swig is also acceptable for the frazzled mother of the party girl)
12) After the children have all gone, sit down, put your feet up and have a well earned drink!

My Own Private Book Club

2009-02-17T10:40:00.001-08:00

I have a confession to make. I don't like book clubs. The thought of sitting around discussing Austen, Bronte, Hardy or any number of old, new or up- and -coming authors and their literary creations does not inspire me. I think there are a number of reasons.

I am a private reader. I become very involved, some might say deeply immersed (drowned?) in the books I choose to read. If I let them, they are apt to take control of my life. If a particular book grabs me, I will choose to read it rather than clean my house, make dinner, meet friends. On more than one occasion I have been known to forget to fetch my children from school. All for the sake of solving the mystery, understanding a character, fathoming the motivation behind the crime.

I love reading. I adore books, and I have a select group of favourite authors, but I also love to discover new titles, new writers, new characters. I am a sucker to the marketing guys too, the ones who choose the title, who select the final cover, who decide on the text, the font, the number of chapters. And the smell of new books? Mmmmm. Better than fresh- baked bread, or a just opened bag of coffee beans . It all works for me. I am hooked on book stores.

But, as I say, I am a private reader. If someone else says "Oh, didn't you love that book by ..." It loses some of it's virginal appeal. I find it a struggle to get into a book recommended by someone else (... especially if that someone is Oprah). Is it a form of snobbery? Maybe. I fancy that I am the one who really knows. I am the one who should be directing and endorsing. I am happy to say enthusiastically to others "You MUST read this!" But I don't want to be the one to be informed of a books worth.

Perhaps most importantly, when I am reading about a fictitious someone, I claim ownership. Their story was written just for me, not for anyone else. No one else understands. No one else can empathize, sympathize, cry, laugh, mourn, celebrate, rejoice feel for the fictional characters the way I can. It would be an abuse of privacy to let others into my thoughts and feelings, to ask me to discuss my opinions, while I am intrinsically woven into the story. I would feel violated. And it would be abhorrent to me if anyone shared those sentiments. They would lose their originality; become worthless.

I have a dislike, a wary mistrust, of book clubs. All those people gathered together reading about MY beloved characters. What do they know? I selfishly guard my thoughts and feelings. I don't want to share my views.

So, SILENCE IN THE LIBRARY, PLEASE ...

Agitiy For The Fun Of It?

2009-02-02T10:56:00.000-08:00

I have a dream. In my dream, my dog Addie races eagerly over agility obstacles. To the awe inspired cheers and adulation of the gathered crowds she leaps in an effortless arc over jumps. She wriggles at the speed of light through long yellow tunnels, emerging with a wag of her plumy tail, ears up, alert, ready for the next piece of equipment. At the pause table she sits and waits, expectant eyes on me, primed for the signal to dash to the A frame. Ah, what a dream.

Reality came knocking when I signed us up for an “agility for the fun of it” training course at our local rec. center. We arrived early on an unseasonably humid day. We sat in the shade and watched as three women struggled to assemble thrilling looking pieces of metal, wood and plastic. I was beginning to get excited. Addie panted lethargically at my feet. Other dogs were starting to gather, sniffing, growling, barking. Many different breeds and sizes. All united in the common cause of agility!

After a brief explanation of the course, we got down to business. And I saw the error of my assumption: Not all border collies are natural agility athletes. As I glanced around, I saw dogs jumping as though strapped to pogo sticks. I saw frenzied wheeling and dashing; dogs seemingly on caffeine highs. Who had slipped that little white terrier an E? Had that poodle forgotten to take his ADHD medication? They were noisy, ecstatic, exuberant. And there was Addie, placidly dozing against my legs. She seemed to be in slow motion while the others were on fast forward. I was beginning to get worried.

Our first piece of equipment was the jumps. They set them low, and we were instructed to run alongside our dog squawking “jump!” enthusiastically. The couple in front of us proceeded. A large woman waddling, puffing in the heat, her dog bounce! bounce! Bouncing over the jumps. They met up at the end, the dog bounding into the owners arms, wriggling, kissing, both smiling widely. I glanced at Addie. Did I catch a hint of reproach in that sideways look? “Do we have to do this?” I sat her at the start of the course, pointing her nose at the first jump. I took her leash, pulled slightly, and she rose reluctantly to her feet. We began to run. Jump! I shouted. She jumped. We finished the course, and she wagged her tail, embarrassed, looking about her like a mortified child caught doing something good in front of her friends. I gave her a treat and fussed over her: “Good dog, Good dog.” She seemed slightly mollified.

In two weeks we looked at various pieces of equipment, and I began to see why they call it “Agility Trials”. Each time we got to the course, Addie seemed to shrink inside herself. When given the motivation, she can be speedy. She chases squirrels, deer and rabbits till she drops. But when I put her in a field with jumps, a-frames and squiggly yellow plastic tunnels, she became a sluggish lump. She just didn’t want to know. It took me two weeks , but I finally admitted to myself that it wasn’t going to work. Addie and agility were not compatible. Just because she has border collie in her blood doesn’t make her an agility dog. Her heart just wasn’t in it.

Thinking about it, we humans are all different, so why shouldn’t dogs be too? We all have our own interests and hobbies: art, tinkering with car engines, ballroom dancing, gardening. Some dogs are into the agility stuff, but others like to play ball or chase a Frisbee, or just lie snoozing in front of the fire. I now accept that Addie will not be an agility champion, even just for the fun of it. She is a doze on the couch champion, and I love her just the way she is.

Hypochondria And The Man

2009-01-31T19:56:00.001-08:00

I was talking to a friend in England today, and, amongst other things, we chatted about how her poor husband had broken his leg last Autumn while out running. He had slipped on some wet leaves and gone down hard. He had heroically made it home, and was scathing of my friend's attempts to get him to seek professional advice over his injury. It was just a sprain apparently, and would get better without medical intervention. My friend thought the rather hideous purple lump was probably a little more than a sprain, but being a wise and gentle woman, did not push her husband on the matter. So, for nearly a week, this hero went to work. My friend eventually had had enough and told him he had to get to a hospital. The large and hideous lump was getting larger and more hideous by the day, and was not going away. The Doctor sent him straight to the hospital, and my friend received a phone call a few hours later requesting that she go to pick him up. The hero and his new friend, Plaster Cast.

The thing is, when my friend told me this story, she said "You know how men are ... they don't like to make a fuss". And I found myself agreeing with her. But as I was nodding and murmuring acquiescence I was thinking, "really? Are men like this? Mine isn't!"

My husband is a hypochondriac. Every new mole that appears is cancerous. Every unexplained rash has a deep and sinister explanation. Every lump and bump, cough and wheeze is a strange terrifying disease.

And who was that idiot who invented Web MD? Isn't it bad enough that when we are ill, our imaginations are working overtime, and we are writing our own obituaries before the end of the day? Do we really need to log on and find a thousand and one other things we might be dying from, as opposed to just the one we thought up ourselves?

A couple of years ago, my husband discovered a lump on his chest. He was devastated, and asked friends to pray. An appointment was made to see the doctor, and he just about managed to get through the weekend, experiencing those moments of loss and devastation which accompany the terminally ill. On the Monday, he saw the doctor. While he was waiting to be examined, his attention was caught by an illustration of the human body pinned to the wall. He got up to have a closer look, and he saw something which made him feel at once so much better, and yet at the same time, strangely worse. The illustration showed a protuberance, just about where the unidentified lump on his chest sat. It was bone. He had asked people to pray, had suffered a weekend thinking he was going to die, and was now sitting waiting to see a doctor, all because he had a bone in his chest. A bone that was meant to be there. How embarrassing!
When the doctor eventually entered the room, Andy sheepishly explained that he appeared to be there under false pretences.
Later we had a good chortle about it all (He may be a hypochondriac but at least he can laugh at himself)
We put the whole episode down to the fact that we had been purposefully losing weight slowly over the past few months, and that he was now thinner than he had been for quite some time. This bone hadn't actually been visible for several years. He had forgotten it had ever existed. I think that excuse is rather reasonable, don't you?!

Memories Are Made of This

2009-01-30T07:33:00.000-08:00

Reading Kimberly's post http://www.maherfamilygrows.blogspot.com reminded me what it was like. Those endless days of breastfeeding, changing dirty nappies, trying to sooth fractious babies with all manner of methods (singing, rocking, ignoring, nursing, burping,) and I was so tired. And there was no me time. And all I wanted to do was curl up in bed and sleep.
But there are other memories.
Of rocking 2 year old Ellie in my arms, as I (heavily pregnant with Bethany) gazed down into her sleepy blue eyes, and as she gazed back at me and said "song me"
Of a pregnant me napping in my bed while baby Ellie napped in hers, and when she woke up after an hour, bringing her in with me where we would both drift off again for another hour, and when we woke, it would be dusk and we would whisper secrets to each other, and giggle as we heard Daddy's key in the door. What would he think? His two girls snuggling in bed at 6 in the evening!
Of walking Ellie to school, with Beth and Jess in the double buggy, and stopping off at the bakery on the way home, grabbing crumbly croissants to warm our frozen hands.
Of playing in the park, pushing children on swings, encouraging that first terrifying venture down the slide.
Of playing in the sunshine, pushing dolls in prams, that first perilous wobble on the bicycle, climbing trees, paddling barefoot in the creek,
Days when the TV didn't spew kids programmes out 24/7, when Teletubbies and Postman Pat were all that mattered. When a bath and story at bedtime and prayers and kisses and tickles and lights off at 7 was the routine.
Now nappies have been replaced with thongs
Postman Pat has moved aside for One Tree Hill (his little red van disappearing into the distance with a final "toot toot", his black and white cat mewling for the last time)
Bedtime routines now revolve around homework, and texting and facebook for the oldest, and the youngest just fits in where she can. She still gets her stories, she still gets her TV shows, but now they compete for popularity with video and computer games.
I still have two girls who enjoy climbing trees, who still ride their bikes like mad things, who still think the pool is a place to swim, not a place to get a tan and a male following.
But it's two down two to go. . .
I used to laugh and despair of people who told me "It'll all be gone just like that, so make the most of it" . When you are in the middle of it, it's a never ending struggle to survive, let alone enjoy the experience!
I love being a Mother. I love watching my girls grow and mature. It's all change, and I deal with it and learn from it, and as long as I have those memories of their first step, their first tooth, their first day at school I am okay. I can concentrate on looking forward to the good times ahead.

Take Me Home, Country Road ... NOW!!

2009-01-28T08:20:00.001-08:00

Just got back from a long weekend away in West Virginia. Wonderful place, (www.thefourseasonswva.com), fantastic scenery a hot tub, so much space that the dogs could run free and wild, chasing anything which happened to invade their new domain (which, as it happened, was nothing ... the deer were wise to their presence and all that they found was a squirrel skull, complete with teeth, which was removed for their safety [not entirely sure, are squirrel bones like chicken bones, prone to splinter in dog throat?])

Anyway ... enough space to swing several thousand cats ... not that we took ours, and for the children to reach deep into their imaginations as they explored the hills and valleys and all the nooks and crannies in between.

The journey there was uneventful, save for 7 people and two dogs being confined to a cramped place for 2 hours and one of the dogs being found to be an unhappy traveler. Driving along in near zero temperatures, one is forced to choose between opening the windows and freezing, and keeping them closed and succumbing to the noxious fumes ... we chose the open window.

Many a pleasant hour was spent lounging in the hot tub, sighing with the satisfied feeling that comes with hot bubbly water, a clear crisp night sky and the fact that no one (except your closest family) can see your post- Christmas-pre -diet body spilling out of your swimsuit.

We enjoyed the fire pit, and sat out in the frozen temperatures staring into the flames long into the night (all except Jessica who after a few minutes said "this is boring!" and went to do something more interesting.)

The real fun came though, when we woke on Tuesday, our last day, and found 2 inches of snow outside. And it was still falling. A beautiful sight, the trees, the hills, covered and glistening. The dogs and the children played till their paws and their fingers were frozen, and Andy and I debated the wisdom of staying another night or attempting the journey home in our two wheel drive, in need of new tires, Honda Odyssey. We decided to leave, based on the fact we didn't really have enough food for much longer, and our knowledge (thanks to the Weather Chanel) that there would be more snow, possible ice and we would be stuck for a week.

So we packed the van, and began the job of clearing the quarter mile incredibly steep driveway with only a broom and two old rakes (nothing like being well equipped for the job in hand!)

Then we all traipsed to the top of the hill, and watched as Andy "Hero of the Moment" attempted to make it up the drive. At the first real incline, the car skidded and the wheels spun uselessly, and we were forced to rake away more leaves and snow. This happened several times, but after an hour or so, he had reached the top. By this time we were all pretty frozen, and the snow was falling steadily. We clambered in, taking "Old Faithful Rake" as a precautionary measure, and continued on our way. The road was unploughed and the hills which before had been mild undulations were now scary mountains, and the van, despite her efforts was not up to the job. Three times Andy got out and raked away the snow, creating just enough traction for us to skid-start up. On the third hill, we couldn't make it. Every time the accelerator was touched we veered dangerously closer to the edge of the road, and the drop into the valley. So we stopped. In the middle of nowhere. It was getting dark. There were no houses nearby. And it was snowing.

Thank God for West Virginians. After what seemed like hours but was probably 20 minutes, someone came along, and went to fetch her husband who had a nice big Ford 4x4 and a nice chunky, clunky chain, and they towed us up the hill and around a few bends and up another hill, until we reached as near as West Virginia gets to civilisation.

The next two hours was not pleasant. In fact, I don't think we have ever driven through such atrocious conditions, but we made it home, and I am very thankful to Andy, West Virginians with 4x4's and God.

I am looking forward to going back to that cabin, but next time, we will take snow chains, or perhaps experience West Virginia at another time of year!

To School or Not to School

2009-01-14T11:52:00.000-08:00

I just got a phone call from the school, telling me my kindergartner was in the clinic, complaining of tummy ache, and feeling as though she might throw up. So I dutifully went to fetch her, and was greeted by a mischievous grin.
As we drove home I glanced in the rear view mirror and caught the twinkle in her eye.
"Jessica's still in school", she announced. I nodded affirmation. "Beth is still in school?" She asked. Again, I agreed. "Ellie is still in school!" A triumphant exclamation. Then a gleeful "I'm not!" Hmmm.

They learn quickly, these little ones, that the school clinic is a magic portal home to mummy-cuddles, Sponge bob DVD's and snacks.

The School Clinic Aide and I don't really see eye to eye. There is a reason.

The School Rule: If a child is leaking (or is threatening leakage) from any orifice, or if it has a fever, it is quickly dispatched home

The Home Rule: If a child can walk, it goes to school.

You can see the slight discrepancy.

If my child appears at the breakfast table with snot dripping from her nose and a flushed face, then she can go back to bed, and maybe, if her fever is really high, I will call the doctor.
If she has noticeably swollen tonsils and cannot speak, (and has snot dripping from her nose and a fever) then, again, bed is the answer.
If a child complains of a stomach ache and feeling sick, but isn't actually vomiting then she can go to school
If she has a sore throat but no fever, then it's school.

I am a harsh unsympathetic mother. But my children know that malingering is not an option.

Then there are the times when Mummy gets it wrong.

Like the time my oldest woke me up in the night, several times over a period of a few months, to say she had an ache in her lower jaw. I gave her Tylenol. When I eventually had had enough of these disturbed nights, I made an appointment with the Doctor, who advised seeing a dentist who told me my daughter needed a root canal. Ouch!

And then there was the time the same daughter complained of a sore foot after playing soccer. I gave her Motrin and told her it would get better eventually. It did, but only after a visit to the doctor prompted a visit to ER and an X-Ray confirmed a fracture of the growth plate of the big toe. Another ouch.

And then the time the same daughter (she must think I have it in for her) was home sick with a fever. I knew she was sick, but didn't want to give her any medication before a visit to the Doctor so the Doctor would know just how sick she was. Whilst waiting to see someone, the poor girl almost fainted. When they took her temperature the thermometer registered a fever of 104.6. Thankfully, she recovered quickly once they administered the medicine I, her cruel and heartless Mother, had denied her.

It is a difficult thing, deciding if your child is really sick or just playing the system. We sometimes get it wrong. But then, we are only human!

Be Green:- flaunt your underwear.

2009-01-12T08:25:00.000-08:00

I enjoyed reading Sherri's http://recoveringsociopath.blogspot.com/ post recently. It was about how we can live our day to day lives in a more environmentally friendly way.

One product absent from her scrutiny was something no English family would be without. They stretch across gardens and yards. They are festooned with bright hanging garments of all shapes sizes and descriptions. Every morning, if you took a head count, you would probably see a thousand or more women (and the odd man) outside with baskets, bags and bins, stretching down, reaching up, all taking part in a corporate workout routine. Inclement weather is no barrier. In fact, the ritual often precipitates rain (a meteorological mystery, as yet scientifically unproven) At the end of the day, the routine can again be witnessed, this time in reverse, Stretching up, reaching down, time after time.

Nearly every house in England, if it possesses an outside area, has a clothes line. If there is no room for a line, then it will probably have a rotary clothes dryer http://breezecatcher.com/.

In this part of America, the old fashioned way of drying ones clothes died out several decades ago. Every home comes with a tumble dryer, but very few sport a line or any outside drying devise. And in some communities, drying clothes in public view is even against housing association regulations. Heaven forbid anyone see your off white extra large knickers swinging in the morning breeze!

Last summer we purchased a rotary dryer, and my husband fixed it (very cleverly, I thought) to the deck outside our kitchen. When the weather is agreeable (NOTE:torrential rain, ice, snow and high humidity do not make good drying conditions) I am out there, hanging out the washing. I asked a couple of neighbours if they minded and was given the all clear. I don't think I am breaking any rules, but I guess I will find out if someone complains.

And although we are not ones to closely scrutinize out monthly utility bills, I can safely surmise that we are saving ourselves a few dollars every time we choose to be old fashioned and use pegs instead of electricity.

Then there is the obvious benefit to the environment. Your tumble dryer is one of the most energy intensive appliances in your home. Not using it cuts down on C02 emissions, which is a plus for someone wanting to live the green life.

"I want a cabin in the woods"

2009-01-07T15:02:00.000-08:00

I love the Message. I especially like to read the Psalms, and the Message translation just jumps up and whacks me in the face.
Psalm 55 shouts to me ... and I want to follow the Psalmist as he searches for the idyll he describes:

"Get me out of here on dove wings;

I want some peace and quiet.

I want a walk in the country,

I want a cabin in the woods"

I want that place. I want that tranquil setting, that cabin.

And while we're at it; not that I want to appear greedy, Lord, but could it have a hot tub? And an HDTV? (I really need to catch up on some DVD's, ones that don't have a cartoon character as the hero) And how about a king-sized bed? With crisp clean fresh smelling sheets (not ones that are desperately in need of a wash, and reek of eau de dog).

And wouldn't it be nice to have that king-sized bed all to me Me ME! No patter of tiny footsteps in the night, no waking up to find a child standing expectantly by your head, whispering "Mummy, MUMMY! I had a nightmare". No little squirmy body, all elbows and knees and feet taking up an entire side of the bed. No "there's a spider in the bathroom, will you come in with me" at 4am.

I love my children. I am happy with my life. But every now and then, God knows, I need that cabin in the woods.

flip-flop weather

2009-01-06T03:45:00.000-08:00

Can someone please tell me, what weather does it take for a teenage girl to consider leaving her flip-flops at home?
I waved my 14 year old off this morning, in the rain/chance of sleet, and watched her tiptoe delicately through the puddles toward the bus stop, wearing gloves (yea!) but no coat (hmm?) and the aforementioned thin pieces of rubber and plastic on her poor little feet.
We pick our battles in this house. The wearing of weather appropriate clothing is one we just raise our eyebrows over, make subtle suggestions about, but don't actually enforce. One would hope that this trend (I know it's not just my kids) will eventually die a death, preferably before a teen loses a toe to frostbite, or slips and breaks her ankle.
It is January. I am hoping at some point in the next couple of months to see some snow. Will the boots make an appearance then? Surely even a teenager cannot want to shuffle around with nearly-bare feet in sub-zero temperatures and accumulating drifts. If and when it does snow, and she tries to exit the house with inappropriate footwear, then the gloves are off (figuratively speaking); it's gonna be time for battle.

Sister Shopping

2008-12-21T16:33:00.000-08:00

The joys of Christmas shopping with children.

We decide on the Mall, as opposed to Target or Walmart, due to the eldest daughters indignant cry of "I'm not buying anything from those places!" (Any item which does not contain a tag embossed with the letters B.C.R.A.E.M.B.O.I.R.E.[characters rearranged for copyright reasons] will not be considered for purchase, even as gifts for others)

We park, and walk through Macys, the youngest wondering off immediately, attracted by the vast array of Nutcrackers on display. Teddy bear Nutcrackers, Nutcrackers as doorstops, Nutcracker goblets, Zac Effron Nutcrackers (ok, I'm kidding, but wow, what a gem of a marketing idea!)

Arriving in the Mall proper, we quickly decide on a plan of action. Andy will take the oldest two to raid the bank, while I wedge myself and the youngest two into the heaving mass of humanity which is Claires.

A little girl is sitting on the chair by the door, waiting to have her ears pierced for Christmas, and as she whimpers in anticipation she is gawped at by people in the line, which is snaking past her and out the shop.

My two youngsters fight over which earrings they are going to purchase for their older siblings. Will it be the bright green turtles? The long dangly ones? The massive hoops? I try to direct them to some tamer displays, but they are not to be moved.

Then we get to the interesting part, where I have to discreetly ask the 10 year old "What do you think your little sister would like from you?" and as she seeks inspiration from the displays of Hello Kitty merchandise, the 5 year old is then asked the same. She is not so subtle. "Would you like this?" She grabs a Kung Fu Panda figure and shoves it under her sisters nose. So much for the element of surprise.

And there is throughout the shopping expedition the continuous drone of children whining "but I want something NOW!" After patiently explaining for the hundreth time that it is entirely possible that Santa will have already got them "this" ( a tinkerbell figure) or "that" ( a belly button ring) I finally snap "If you don't shut up, Santa will not be getting you anything!" and the children leave the store crying.

We eventually exit the Mall, the children clutching their gifts for each other, and I know it is good that they are learning that it is better to give than to receive, but I wonder if the lesson can't be learned just as well using a computer, a mouse and a virtual shopping cart.

The parable of the good dog and the bad dog

2008-12-18T19:30:00.000-08:00

There were once two dogs. One dog was good, and did as her masters instructed. She was praised and given many treats. But this dog was sly, although her masters did not know it. Every night, when the kitchen was empty, she would get upon the table and eat of the leftovers. The other dog was a bad dog. He was forever getting into trouble for his misdeeds, which were plenty and outrageous. In his youth he had swallowed many socks, and had been forced to drink hydrogen peroxide, thus inducing much sickness and vomit. He would think nothing of eating a whole loaf of bread, packaging included, and forever the voices could be heard crying in the wilderness "Get Down Billy!"
The good dog, clever and wicked as she was, convinced her masters that the bad dog was responsible for all all the mischevious (nay, odorous) doings within the household. The bad dog, being stupid and boneheaded, accepted blame and punishment as his due.
One day, however, the master came into the room and found the good dog with a bone in her mouth.
"was this not meant for the dogs at Christmas?" the master asked.
"Verily, yes" the mistress replied.
Upstairs, the mistress found much evidence of naughtiness, with ripped packaging and shredded cellophane all that remained of 4 chocolate Christmas gifts she had bought for her children. The good dog hung her head in shame, for her sins had been found out. The bad dog, being boneheaded and stupid, missed out on all the action and the free chocolate.

Teenagers, the new alien generation

2008-12-17T11:05:00.000-08:00

In case you had not heard ... teenagers are not humans. Their brains have been taken captive and their thought processes altered. Outwardly they appear much as they did before they turned 13, but, inside their heads a radical change has occurred. This does not happen overnight. In order to fool parents, siblings, teachers and even family pets, the mutation is subtle. Symptoms can at first be mild, and often go unnoticed. A desire to please slowly dissolves, a willingness to help gradually disappears. These two qualities are stealthily replaced by apathy and resentment. These in turn are apt to evolve into anger and defiance. A child who fibbed occasionally, mildly, inconsequentially, now lies through her braces. Wet shoes by the back door are not the result of midnight assignations with the latest hookup but a mere slip of the memory: “I forgot to bring them in”. A missed bus when told to come straight home from school is not because she is getting to third base on his sofa while his mother is at work but a study hour in the library: “I’m just finishing my Math homework, I’ll be on the late bus.”
Lies are natural. We all lie. I lied to my Mother, and, come to think of it, I still do. (Now I would call it protecting her rather than protecting me!) But lies teenagers tell are different. They are a new breed; a mutation. My daughter claims she lies because if she told me the truth I would not let her do what she has lied in order to do. Teenage logic. The circle of trust v. mistrust. If I trust you to do the right thing, I will let you do it, but you have proved in the past that you cannot be trusted to do the right thing, so I will not let you do it. Therefore you have to lie to me in order to do it. Therefore I no longer trust you.
The alien life form which has invaded my child will, I am told, eventually release her. But never back to me. She will never again be my sweet little girl. The unconditional Mummy-Cuddles, (now temporarily replaced with straight-backed-no-arms-one-sided hugs), will not return. There will be the occasional spontaneous embraces, shared laughter, chat, and an abundance of memories, good and bad. That is for the future. When we get there.
For now, I struggle on, looking forward to Christmas, but not sure what she will make of it. Will she allow herself to be happy? Her sisters will be joyful, but wary of her moods. I have to wonder at the wisdom of spending money on someone so selfishly ungrateful (and then feel like an ungenerous scrooge for my lack of grace and compassion towards this captive teenage soul) We muddle on, the parenting a teenage journey only just begun. Rough waters ahead, but we have life-floats aplenty! And I will get her to smile on Christmas Day!

2007-10-11T12:09:00.000-07:00

My 9 year old daughter has ADD. She is also highly sensitive and prone to screaming if something upsets her, or if she doesn't get what she wants immediately. Or if she has something that she wants, but there is a threat of it's imminent removal. She has a disproportionate reaction to pain or fear. Her howls can be heard from miles away, but upon frenzied examination, we find a small scratch, or a little bruise. We have begun to listen more for the silences than the screams of apparent agony. Silence means unconsciousness.
Recently we visited a pumpkin patch, with it's paraphernalia of slides, animals and all-you-can-drink-cider. Of course we rode the hayride. Of course there was the guy jumping out from behind a shed with a green mask on his face. We all screamed dutifully and laughed. My daughter was consumed with her own private, irrational terror and tried to leap from the moving wagon. For the remainder of the ride she sobbed and wailed, tears streaking her dust covered face, straw in her hair, head burrowed into her Daddies lap. I should have thought ahead. I should have foreseen her reaction. But every time, I subconsciously forget, and hope that she will have outgrown these illogical phobias: The horror of watching a movie at the theater, where the characters seem to jump out of the screen at her. The twin feelings of dread and excitement as Halloween approaches; the desire for candy tempered by the fear of all those scary costumed figures stalking the streets. Maybe one day she will grow out of it all. But at the moment it just seems to be getting worse, not better.