If You Did This You Could Make Your Kid Happy

Anna is 80% princess and 20% mad scientist/marine biologist. I think that generally sums up a 4 year old girl. A couple of days ago she came up to me to say "you know what we could do together that would make a kid happy?"

I was guessing the answer would involve ice-cream, TV, dressing up as a princess, or possibly all three combined. I was wrong.

"We could make a wormery". Wasn't expecting that one.

Thanks PBS! As luck would have it, one too many mornings spent watching TV and battling the excesses of the previous evening had made me a bit guilt-ridden about slacker parenting. I was ripe for a project. Plus, I've just celebrated a birthday and one of my gifts was a huge display of truly horrible flowers from my office (orange, brown and yellowy-green with a purple bow). LK took one look at them and said "wow, sorry your husband just died". Anyway, the point about the flowers - their only redeeming feature was a large rectangular vase (I say varze, you can say vace if you prefer). Perfect for a wormery! We were off to a good start. I told Anna that as soon as the flowers died we could begin. That wasn't soon enough apparently. She eyed the florid display and started pulling off petals. Some battles just aren't worth fighting, and faced with a flower massacre, we made several small bouquets out of the huge display and freed up the wormery.

Thunderbirds are go!


Step #1: Make Your Child Eat A Banana

Apparently worms don't just need soil and sand, they need food. This could be accomplished by sticking a few leaves and sundry mulchy items in there - but, what a perfect excuse to get your child to eat an entire fruit. Anna set to work, and was rapidly overwhelmed by the enormity of the task;








































































Step#2: Fill Wormery With Layers of Sand, Dirt, Leaves & Banana Peel
This started off a little too slowly for my liking:
































Her ladyship filled the varze at a glacial pace, but I couldn't really criticize as she was skipping with joy between each teaspoon full of sand. I merely shoveled like hell whenever her back was turned. "Way to go Mom" she cried, "we're such a great team. A girl team! This is going to be the best wormery ever". She was a one woman pep rally, thanks to her endless hours of watching preschooler TV.

Eventually we were done - a worm des res:


























Step #3: Find Some Chuffing Worms

I was more than a little worried about this bit quite frankly. We don't live in rural Shropshire after all. We live in an urban area in Southern California. A very arid area where it hasn't rained since April (except that week when my Aunt and Uncle visited - thanks California!).

We tried our best. We dug hard, in multiple locations. We tried to put ourselves in the mindset of an earthworm. Where would we be most likely to live? Not in your chuffing back garden seemed to be the answer. Anna was crushed:






























Not a sausage. Then, a brainwave! Seeing LK and Lucy watering the garden made me remember the crappy leaky hosepipe which I constantly blame for our astronomical water bills. Eureka! An oasis in a desert of concrete and sand. Worm central! Well, not exactly, we found five, and quite frankly I think it was only five because #4 was chopped in half by some overly enthusiastic troweling.


Step #4: Transfer The Worms To Their New Home And Watch Them 'Thrive'



























Lucy could barely contain her excitement:

Go worms, go!



























Several hours later and I have noticed a couple of worms 'resting' on the top of the wormery, clearly not enamoured with their new home. I may have to make some convincing worm tunnels with a plastic drinking straw, but it won't really matter, because for a few short hours at least I did manage to make my kid really chuffing happy.

When Jekyll Won't Hyde

At my first parent teacher conference when Anna was a whopping two years old, I was told she was a little introverted and that to encourage her integration in to preschool I should try and arrange 'playdates' with her peers.

I think those are the words the teacher used. What I actually heard was 'you thoughtless parent, a school is more than a place to corral your child while you earn money, you must talk to those terrifyingly aloof Bugaboo Moms with their 10 megawatt diamonds who sneer at your unchanging work attire and Pilates-free abs, and attempt to infiltrate their impenetrable clique.' Seriously, that's me in a nutshell. My insecurities raged as I used all my powers of small talk to corner a parent or two at drop-off. Eventually I beat S's Mom in to submission and we had Anna's first ever playdate at the Botanic Garden. S turned out to be Anna's first ever BFF and all was right with the world. I let out a huge sigh of relief and crawled back under my rock.

Playdates waned a little with Lucy's birth - somehow the idea of toting both children to somebody else's house, or round a playground seemed far too overwhelming for the first six months. Besides, Anna was thriving at her new school, her social calendar replete with birthdays and events.

Last Friday one of her many new friends, K, came round for a first playdate at our house. Prior to their arrival my biggest concerns were K's limiting gluten and dairy-free diet - but I had decided that we could pick homegrown tomatoes and the girls could either eat them or starve. I was also worried about our pigsty of a ghetto dwelling, but ha! little did I know that that would pale into insignificance once Dr. Anna Jekyll made her appearance.

I won't go into the full horror of the 90 minutes of hell. I will just leave you with a few choice quotes from my darling daughter:

"You're not pretty in that dress"
"My dress is deeper (read, longer) than yours and I am more beautiful"
"Stop following me"
"You're not allowed to play with that. Mom stop her touching my stuff"
"I want you to go home I don't like you"

Oh it was a joy. Then Lucy choked on her fistfuls of Cheerios and projectile vomited all over the carpet.

K's Mum was of course there throughout, 4 year olds being considered too little to 'fly solo' at a playdate. She was very sweet, and tried her best to be helpful. "This is why we have playdates" she cried cheerily. "It's just their age". I smiled and tried to communicate certain death to Anna by giving her Paddington's hardest stare.

After they left, or rather, fled, I waited the requisite 5 minutes in case they'd forgotten anything then sat Anna down for a serious talk. There were tears of uncomprehending rage. And from Anna too. She couldn't see anything wrong with her behaviour. She clearly felt she was just asserting her rightful ownership. In the end the punishment meted out was no TV for 2 days (I was the real victim with that one) and her Barbies were also confiscated for two days. I know! If only the UN took such a hard line!

We have had one playdate since, with a different friend, on neutral ground (Switzerland). It went well. Still I'm not sure whether I'm ready to replicate Annagate. At least not with friends whose mother's I am not on a drinking-relationship level with.

This parenting caper is far too stressful.

Mourning Has Broken

It's our wedding anniversary today. 12 years ago Princess Diana was laid to rest and Britain observed a national day of mourning. Scene stealer.

I'm sure many of you have woken up on your anniversary to roses, cards, jewelery. Perhaps a fresh cup of coffee.

I woke up this morning to find that Anna's giant metallic Thomas the Tank Engine balloon had migrated up the stairs, along the landing, coming to rest directly above my pillow. His giant moon-face hovering above me at 6am.

That'll wake you up in a hurry.

If You Can't Play Nicely

I hadn't really thought about how long I was going to nurse Lucy. Anna self-weaned at 6 months, and I suppose I was expecting another gradual dwindling of interest. At the very least I thought it would be my decision..........

Lucy has been happily continuing her love affair with the boob, and I had a mental tally of breastfeeding pros and cons, resulting in the following scattered list:

PROS:

• Mother and daughter bonding time.
• It's free!
• Assisted weight loss, or rather, no weight loss but guilt-free eating.
• So much easier - never caught without baby food, and no faffing around with bottles and formula.
• 15 minutes of down-time twice a day at work while I pumped.
• No saggy post-nursing boobs
• Quite possibly our last baby so huge amounts of sentiment involved.

CONS:

• Lugging the breastpump to work and back. That thing weighs a tonne.
• Cleaning and sterilizing the pump bottles and sundry pumpish items. Every. Chuffing. Night.
• Al fresco boobs in the office. Even behind a locked door it made me squeamish.
• Giant boobs - only having two bras that fit.
• Giant boobs - made all t-shirts look like crop tops.
• Giant boobs - having to jog in two sports bras.
• Giant boobs - look but don't touch!

When you look at that list we had an obvious winner. Nursing is free. Formula is expensive. In these fiscally responsible (desperate) times the bottom line is the bottom line. I was game to keep nursing til she went to college. One less kids meal at Macdonalds!

Oh, and I will be honest and admit that it was lovely to hold her and nurse her in to a blissed-out milk coma. I mean really, look at that face! What a little cherub.

























No!

Don't let her deceive you! In fact, keep all hands, feet and loose clothing away from her because that tiny angelic human is a BITER and I am her poor chewed-upon victim.

She only has her lower teeth right now, but let me just say that 'only' was not the word ricocheting round my brain as she clamped down. I squealed and tried to prize away her vice-like jaws and oh how she laughed! How funny! The noises you do make Mummy! Let's do that again!

And because I'm a muppet we did. I gave her the benefit of the doubt, several horrendously painful times. I think I kept trying because I couldn't quite believe it would end like that. I was the lovestruck teenager wailing "It's over? But we were so good together!"

I was deflated, and so were my boobs. Pfffffffttttttttt.

In her defence, she is teething, but this girl is in such a rush to grow up. She is already standing and creeping between pieces of furniture. She started crawling at 5 months. She's already bristling with teeth. Slow down!

I was actually surprised how deeply affected I was by the abrupt end to nursing. Maybe it was compounded by hormonal fluctuations as I went from 60mph to 0mph in 1 day. I felt really flat and depressed. I even googled 'biting babies' and 'breastfeeding a crocodile', and that really cheered me up.. Thanks internet! Because the advice that was given was so asinine, so breast-feeding Nazi-ish that I had to laugh. Seriously:

"Don't flinch or scream when your baby bites as they will enjoy this reaction".

Honestly? You try it. I will punch you repeatedly in the balls or ovaries and watch you try and keep a straight face.

"Stop giving you baby a bottle as chewing on a plastic nipple only encourages this behaviour"

Great so now I have a hungry and pissed off biter. Not such great advice.

In the end we compromised. No more breastfeeding during the day, only a touch of comfort-nursing last thing at night when she seems to sheath her tiny fangs.

I'm not yet sure who needs the comfort most.

Us vs. Them: Elected Officials

Driving to work this other morning, listening to NPR and trying to stave off complete maternal mental atrophy, I happened upon a discussion about Ted Kennedy. No big surprise there. They were outlining who would take over his Senate post, who would have the requisite $3-4 million dollars for a quick campaign (don't get me started on that one) and one of the candidates mentioned was his wife. Completely plausibly.

America - What The Chuff?

There is constant debate over how money may or may not win you a political campaign (common sense would seem to indicate more ad revenue would bring in more votes - but Freakonomics disputes this). Then tell me why our State has twice been run by a movie star? Huh? Huh? But that's an argument for a different day. What nobody ever seems to bat an eyelid at is the number of instances when an elected official dies, and their spouse (most often a wife) runs in his place and is elected. This seems to make a complete mockery of the system.

When Sonny Bono died skiing, his wife was elected to fill the remainder of his Congressional term. When Santa Barbara's Congressman Walter Capps died of a heart attack in 1997 his wife was elected to fill his position, and has since been re-elected four times. Now I'm not knocking our Congresswoman (after all, my Green Card expires in a couple of years), she is very highly educated and used to be a nurse - quite a useful background considering the current healthcare debate, it just seems so odd. I for one will not be leaping into LK's job should the worst ever happen.

I am instantly dubious of anyone who wants to be a career politician - someone who has always been hell-bent on political power and has never held a 'real' job, but equally, someone who takes up the reigns because they happened to be married to a politician. What kind of a qualification is that - how seriously ambivalent are the constituents? (Don't ask me - I can't vote).

As a counterpoint I will agree that the House of Lords is an equally ridiculous institution when it comes to inherited voting rights - but that at least is being addressed and the number of hereditary peers who can vote has dwindled to 92. The number of wives taking their deceased husband's seats in America seems to be increasing. If I was Arnie I would be pretty chuffing worried that my Kennedy wife would bump me off so she could start to run California. After all she would appear to be the more 'qualified' of the two....

Pretty Damn Hard, That's What

To backtrack, we were the ones that had let them have a puppy. They had been our tenants for about three years, and were really nice guys. The puppy though, not so much. They came to us about a year ago and said they would have to move. One of their roommates was moving out, and the girlfriend of an existing tenant was thinking about moving in, but she had a puppy....

We thought about it, I was pregnant with Lucy, the rental market was already starting to look a little dodgy, so we said yes.

Ouch.

So yes. I went upstairs to take a look at the partially vacated apartment and came back to tell Lance, "We're moving to England!" "No need to know why!" "Just pack!"

More medicinal martinis later and he told me we had to be grown-ups, we had to face the destruction of Apt A. He said we couldn't just run away - mostly because there's no suitcase big enough for Anna's collection of princess dresses (true).

The renovations began the minute we got back from the UK. Carpet was installed, paint was applied, surfaces were scoured. A thin trickle of prospective tenants toured. LK was an absolute stud. I can't tell you how much money was saved by him being all manly and scurrying back and forth to the DIY shop. We faced a broken toilet. He figured out it was cheaper to replace the entire toilet than re-order the parts for an old one. So he bought it, and installed it. I know?! How many of you know how to install a toilet? He built drawers after our tenants absconded with a couple from the kitchen. Seriously, what the chuff? Who steals drawers? LK reckons it was easier for them to pack their cutlery that way. That made so much sense I am now suspecting LK to be a drawer-nicker himself.

So yes, there was plastering, and fixing and handiness of all kinds, but it wasn't all sunshine and lollipops for me either. I went to World Market to buy curtains. With a screaming baby. See, I suffered. I bought poo brown curtains to match my mood.

I think the reason I was so disappointed in discovering the state of the place, was not so much the cost (we did have a security deposit), but the time and effort it took to rectify things - you can't after all charge tenants for time wasted in trying to get a place in a decent enough condition to put on the market. Plus I now have tenant-trust issues. Welcome to the real world doe-eyed landlord. I now plan on being a landlord beotch and will scowl if I hear a gnat-fart past 9pm.

We did manage to re-rent the place fairly quickly, but to a less than perfect group of four college lads. And yes, we did get their security deposit and take pictures of the new carpet.

Can't wait to see what they do with the place!

How Hard Can It Be?

I don't post much about being a landlord, because really, all we do is cash the checks each month and then get back to our champagne lifestyle.

Easy.

We own four three-bed two-bath apartments in a liminal area of town. One block up, million dollar condos, two blocks down Chicano gangland. When we bought the place, two weeks before I had Anna *won't be doing that again*, our intention was to go through the immense City process to get the apartment building converted in to condos. One run-down apartment building would become four beautiful, separately saleable condos. The sum of the parts is greater than the whole.

Well, that was the plan. The glacial City process was completed, but took us from May 2005 to May 2008. At which point, it became clear that the final hurdle, a construction loan with which to activate all our lovely new permits, was nowhere to be found. We were months ahead of the game with the global economic meltdown. In a way it was a relief to discover all those loan rejections weren't purely personal.

So, we're left with a run-down, but fully rented apartment block, and we live in one of the apartments. We had not planned on the need to have rents cover our mortgage for years on end, so things are a tad *tight* now that that is how we must survive. As such, when one of our tenants said they were moving out mid-month, coinciding almost cosmically with the day we left for England I literally fell to my knees and tried to remember how to breathe.

I am a rock in times of crisis.

After a very large martini and a stern pep talk from my husband I decided to think positive. We would rent the place before we left on vacation - before the existing tenants had even moved out! They probably knew people, desperate to move in! Who wanted to pay more rent! I had myself thinking 'I'm sure the place just needs a spritz of Febreze and a quick vacuum and we'll have an Open House! This weekend!'

I got slightly anxious when I went to post the ad on Craigslist and saw just. how. many. apartments are available to rent right now in Santa Barbara. For a lot less than in previous years.

Hundreds.

Historically, you could only find a rental in this town through word of mouth. Now people were advertising first month free! Pets OK! All utilities paid!

The playing field had clearly shifted in favour of the tenant.

Then - after having rather too trustingly advertised the Open House on Craigslist (for increased rent - oh how I laugh now....) I popped upstairs to take a quick look at the place. Our best apartment. Our best tenants were leaving this:

















































































To be continued............

Creepy Crawlies

A few days before our trip I took the girls in the stroller up to our local park. It's uphill all the way, and the Phil and Ted's, ergonomic though it may be, when packed with girls and diapers and snacks and drinks is a bit like trying to take a Sherman Tank for a power walk. It was a great workout, and we weren't exactly racing along the streets.

Anna was not asleep, so that means she was talking. And talking. And talking. Like quite a few prolific talkers, she doesn't need much in the way of actual 'conversation' so I usually keep my iPod on low and throw out the occasional 'yes, uh-huh' or 'really' at random, and that seems to sustain her momentum. Halfway to the park she suddenly broke from her monologue and said 'That's Shelly's house'. To which I replied 'yes, uh-huh-, really'. This time she was not to be fobbed off. 'Mom, look that's Shelly's house!'.

In the space of 5 seconds, maybe less, I thought: 'wait, what? Who's Shelly? how come I don't know anything about any Shelly while my daughter has clearly been over to her house? Is this how I find out? LK's been having an affair, taking my daughter over to her house and I've been completely oblivious and this is how I find out?! Oh My God, what am I going to do, what.....'

"Mom, Shelly is a snail form Sunny Patch Friends and that is her house - look!".

We had literally been going at a snail's pace and Anna had been pointing it out. Turns out, the 'other woman' in our relationship wasn't some ho called Shelly, it was TV, and more particularly a TV show.

I stepped back from the precipice.

Because of this one TV show, Anna now calls all snails 'Shelly'. When we went to England she was in hog heaven because my Mum and Dad's gorgeous garden:

















Contains about 10 snails per square foot. It's a veritable Marks and Spencers food court for snails.

Anna set about collecting them all.

My Mum suggested she keep them in an old fishtank (read, snail Auschwitz). Anna thought this was a brilliant idea, completely oblivious that she was hastening their demise. She is absolutely fearless when it comes to all things creepy, crawly and slimy. She had the time of her life with her 'Shelly's'. We counted them, we raced them (riveting), she even found a gorgeous stripy one. I suggested we call her 'Speed Racer' because of her go-faster stripes. "Or..... we could call her Shelly?" suggested Anna.
































England was kind to Anna. Thousands of Shellys, lots of frogs, slugs and wood lice to capture. So imagine my horror yesterday when I saw the biggest black widow spider I ever saw in my life, just taking a gentle stroll around our property.

There was no mistaking her - fiercely black, with a perfectly round body, like a spider wearing a latex fetish suit. About the size of an old 50p, it took half a can of Raid before she finally twitched herself on to her back - displaying that tell-tale red hourglass on her abdomen. I finished the job with the non-so-delicate heel of my English winter boots. No show and tell this time round.

Imagine what could have happened if I hadn't spotted her first? In California, Mother Nature bites back.

I think our little Gerald Durrell needs to take up stamp collecting.

You Can't Fit England In A Suitcase

I love unpacking. I know it sounds crazy. I don't love the piles of dirty clothes, the inevitable exploded shampoo bottle and the fruitless search for that other flip flop, but I do love checking out the loot from my trip. This is particularly the case when we come back from England, and in that respect I am always disappointed.

I spend an average of 18 months between trips home. I tell LK, Christ, even prisoners get better visitation rights than me. He loves to hear that!

This length of time between visits always leads to a mammoth list of things to buy/eat/do, not to mention, people to visit. When we're home for 10 days, it's just not possible. Plus, most of the food I want to consume, the 'delicacies' peculiar to my hometown just can't be eaten back to back without suffering extreme gastric blockage. Obviously I don't spend 18 months longing for a nibble of a red currant or a Bramley apple. I want sausage rolls, curries, pork pies, chocolate, toffee, Fat Rascals, pontefract cakes, fish and chips - the list is endless and a veritable comfort food time bomb. It's just not possible to get to everything on my list without resorting to having pork pie and chocolate for breakfast. OK, I may have done that. Don't judge me!

The same is true for general shopping. I spend a year and a half yearning to go back to White Stuff, Jack Wills, H&M, Zara, Mango, Monsoon for kids, etc and then find I have to cram it all in to a morning in York with my Mum. Whilst also fitting in a cup of coffee at one of the many gorgeous cafes crammed in to a 500 year old building.

This time we managed to hit the White Stuff sale. OMG. I blew 80% of my paltry time and money budget in that one shop - but it was well worth it. Still, no H&M, no Mango, only the briefest of sprints through Jack Wills (which I'm beginning to think is like a UK Abercrombie and Fitch and I sadly may have outgrown it - but oh, I will wear their sweatpants til I die!!).

*Sigh* All of this means that when I gleefully unpack in our sunny bedroom in SB a few days later I'm consistently disappointed at my lack of loot. You can't put a Marks and Spencers minced beef pie in your carry-on if you've got 3 days, 2 trains and 4 flights back to your final destination but you can stuff your luggage with Wheat Crunchies, pick and mix, Thorntons toffee and the like. You can't buy every article of clothing you've yearned for (and I haven't even explained what it's like to be confronted with an entire country's worth of new girls clothes and a pound that has FINALLY weakened against the dollar).

I think in all honesty the disappointment stems from the realization that you can't fit England in to a suitcase. You can take as many photos as possible, visit as many places, have pints with as many friends, gorge on a years worth of British 'cuisine' - even catch a sneaky 'University Challenge' on TV, but you can't do it all. I can't pack that cold, damp air that seems to be so much fresher than the soft California breezes. I can't pack green on green on green. I can take a photo of my Nanna holding her sleeping second great-grandchild but I don't get to keep seeing it.

I don't get to live there.

I was in tears at Manchester airport. As usual. People would look at me in puzzlement and think 'but love, you're leaving Manchester, you're one of the lucky ones....'. Do you know what started me off? Jelly Babies. I saw them in a shop yet I just couldn't fit one more thing in to our over-stuffed hand luggage, and quite frankly I've never been the biggest fan of Jelly Babies, but the idea of Anna being denied them, that despite me telling her I would introduce her to all that was brilliant about English sweets vs. American candy I had failed; well that destroyed me.

Chuffing Jelly Babies. I must be losing my mind.

How To Travel With Small Children

It could have been much worse.

Granted, it didn't start well. On our first leg of a mammoth 8 flights, I was asked to sit with both girls on one side of the plane while LK sat across the aisle a few rows up. It was a smaller plane and apparently only the right hand row of seats had sufficient oxygen masks.

Oh please, statistically - what was the greater danger - emergency loss of cabin pressure or small children-outnumber-parent-time-bomb? I resolved to let Anna play with the overhead lights and 'call steward' button as many times as she wanted. Take that United! LK gave me a supportive but secretly relieved smile, opened his book, ordered a hugely expensive beer and settled in. I set to work getting both girls preoccupied with boobs and/or sticker books.

Fortunately Lucy adores Anna. Even when Anna hits her over the head repeatedly with a pink My Little Pony. You could see Lucy's face going 'I love you! Ow! I love you! Ow!' Eventually, to save Lucy a future of pain = pleasure masochistic personality disorder, I confiscated 'Princess' the pony. There was the briefest of pauses.

Then Anna bawled.

One of Lucy's most endearing characteristics is that she's a sympathetic cryer. Endearing, but not exactly helpful. Anna was crying, Lucy was winding up for that big wail, her face scrunched up in readiness, and LK, several rows away took a hefty sip of beer. 'What can I do?' he seemed to say. 'The seatbelt sign is on! You can't fight the seatbelt sign!'

I went in to emergency placate mode, ie hissing "Anna, shut up! Please, stop crying now, Lucy's crying because you're crying. For the love of God, shut up and I will give. you. candy".

Anna gulped back her sobs, gave me a devilish grin, and the nuclear meltdown Defcom Delta situation diffused.

Unbelievably that was the only issue we had. Well that and a truly massive poop that Lucy dealt us while flying from Frankfurt to Boston - in turbulence. Damn you seatbelt sign! Twenty minutes later I was behind two men also queueing for the only toilet with baby changing facilities on the plane. My happiness at seeing two blokes stepping up to the plate with their progeny instead of sending their wives, was short-lived because they took FOR-EVER. I felt like knocking on the door and asking if I could help. Honestly how long does it take to Hazmat a child and have a quick wee? I was not happy about waiting while they paraded their incompetence. Two minutes into our session I had Lucy scrubbed clean and returned to her usual pink and peachy self, despite a poop with the consistency and staying power of molasses. How she does that to my breastmilk is beyond me.

The more astute of you are probably thinking - wait, 8 flights? Where did you go Kamchatka? But no, not Kamchatka, the north of England, which is close but with fewer bears and more Jaffa cakes. We took 8 flights because we used air miles and stopped off in Boston to visit LK's family in Maine. If my camera battery charger wasn't still lying on my parents' kitchen worktop in England I would now post bucolic pictures of lakes and canoes and cherry red lobsters (OK so perhaps bucolic was the wrong word).

Anyhoo, the travel. It was smooth. When possible we checked in online, paid for our bags online (saving $4 by doing so was a poor anesthetic for having to pay to check chuffing bags. Seeth) and we always seemed to arrive about an hour before our flight left, which was perfection. Long enough for LK to have a beer and me not to twist a gut with anxiety. Plus, traveling with the midgets is a joy when it comes to the security checkpoint as they whisk you straight through. A little too hastily as it happens, because twice we found large quantities of liquids stowed in our hand luggage that had already cleared security. A bottle of 'Revive' (ha!) Vitamin Water tucked in to a stroller and a large bottle of Daisy perfume that I had forgotten to put in the suitcases. Perhaps we just don't look that menacing.

Another great thing about traveling with tiny ones is that you get to board first, which technically means you get to spend even more time on the plane, but does give you the opportunity to have first pick of the magazines and newspapers in the gangway. We picked Elle and Vogue, only to realize they were in German. Scheiße! Then LK said - on second thoughts - European nudity!! Only to discover it was male nudity! Doppelte Scheiße! In the end Lucy grabbed them both and pronounced them very tasty. Especially the naked male flanks.

Both girls slept very well on most of the flights. A sleeping child on a plane is your ideal (although I've never resorted to Benadryl just in case they go bonkers). However, it's pretty hard to do anything other than sit while you're pinned under a leggy 4 year old. Anything other than drink of course. They also slept all the way to Maine, where we arrived at 4am. Many thanks to LK's sister who picked us up in Boston at 2:15am. What a trooper. The girls were oblivious to our journey so when Anna woke up bright and early the next morning, she cast her eyes around LK's sister's bedroom and said "Why did you guys think you should redecorate?".

So in conclusion, the trick to traveling with small children is: portable DVD player, a New Native sling for the infant (I could have sold mine 50 times over in each airport we passed through), sticker books, baby toys that entertain quietly and lots of booze. And yes, that means if you've paid for that 3rd plane ticket for your 4 year old then she will be having the Cabernet with her meal thank you very much. Don't look at me like that Fraulein, just keep pouring.

Please Mind The Gap

I'm so sorry. I'm not dead. Although after 8 flights, 4 trains, two continents, a teething infant and a puking 4 year old there were times when I thought I was close.

We've just this second (such is my loyalty to you) walked in the door after three weeks showing Lucy off to every known blood relation in the Western world. We had such a brilliant time. I almost can't put it down in words right now without thinking what the chuff am I doing here in this self-imposed exile. I have so many wonderful photos to share - not all of them including sheep. I had meant to let you know I'd be gone for a while, but before we left the pantomime that is my life unfolded in such disastrous ways (tenants moving out leaving utter squalor, vacation coverage at work falling through, LK job carnage) that I literally just fled the country.

Now I'm back and I'm not happy about it - but at least the girls are sleeping!

The Eye of the Beholder

Me: That's it. I'm sick of big boobs. I want my body back. I'm tired of trying on clothes and either looking like a hooker or a matron.

LK: Go for hooker!

The Tailings

Lucy is approaching 6 months old and I am a husk.

The other day LK described it perfectly. He said 'you've been strip-mined'. I've got a beast of a beautiful blonde, rosy-cheeked daughter and I've been left with the tailings. I'm not really complaining, although quite frankly no-one really prepares you for the post-partum period. How many people prior to having children know about your hair falling out a few months after delivery? I have long hair and *oh Lord* our shower is starting to look like a College dorm room. The hair! It's taking over the house. Gossamer strands glinting accusingly from every surface. I am not looking forward to returning to my pre-pregnancy eight strands of limp blonde hair. It has been quite refreshing to have a ponytail wider than my middle finger. Then there's that awful growing back in stage where you have spiky re-growth protruding from your temples like antannae. Good times.

I'm still nursing the beast. I've no idea how she has managed to attain such a size (97th percentile for height) while I'm still exclusively nursing yet still managing to carry around some pregnancy bulge. Looking at the size of her you'd think I'd be down to 100lbs by now. Except while I'm obviously losing weight by breast-feeding I seem to be more than making up for it with my voracious appetite. Lucy woke me up at 5am to feed and for the last hour all I've been thinking about is a full English breakfast. Cereal be damned. I'm talking bacon, sausages, eggs cooked in bacon fat, fried tomatoes and mushrooms, baked beans and fried eggy bread on the side. Hmm. No wonder Lucy looks like she's just eaten all the other babies in the nursery.

We are flying back home for a visit in a couple of weeks and I am not looking forward to presenting my work-in-progress physique. I shall just have to wear a selection of outlandish scarves that draw the eye away from the post-partum carnage. Not sure if that'll be quite so effective in the swimming pool but we shall see. I will admit that I went to the Old Navy $5 swim sale yesterday in an attempt to find a bikini to winch in these giant mammaries. That 10 minutes with two small children, a brightly lit changing room and cheap garish fabrics will require a lifetime of therapy. Damn you self-esteem. Honestly though, what was I thinking? Must have been a low blood-sugar moment, or subconcious self-hatred. Needless to say I did not buy anything - and the moment when Anna announced to the entire fitting room that 'your boobies are too squashed Mommy' was a particular favourite.

Must go. Lucy has just been sick on my hair.

My life is great.

I Made My Bed

My oldest friend V. is getting married today. On Concord, which has to be one of the coolest things ever, unless you are her exceptionally tall husband-to-be who will not doubt spend the entire ceremony with knees bent and a slight stoop. Something he will be more than happy to do to marry V. I'm sure.

Once again I can't be there. We have been friends for over 30 years:











I haven't lost that constipated expression either - that's V. and I in the foreground. I'm the one making an albino look tanned.

It goes without saying that one of the most difficult things about living thousands of miles away from home is having to pick and choose what you go back for. I have missed weddings, funerals, and all-important Saturday morning shopping with my Mum. I suppose ideally I would be living the American Dream, earning enough money to jet back and forth as and when I choose. It hasn't quite panned out that way. I missed V's first wedding because of immigration issues. Now I'm missing this one because we are skint, - busy financing our money pit and two small, incredibly expensive children. As I said, I made my bed.

I can't complain too much, thanks to air-miles we are all flying back in a month for my cousin's wedding and for my parents 40th wedding anniversary. That'll be the last trip home for a while though unless I can persuade LK to part with a kidney. Still, V. came up with a genius plan. She had S. will renew their vows for their 10th anniversary, like we did, in Vegas, and we'll join them then. Please click on the ads on the right had side of this blog to make sure I can finance that trip. I figure $10 a year in ad revenue over the next 10 years could buy us a room off-strip somewhere!!

and finally, on a lighter note, I bring you:

Blue Steel:

Four!

I'm starting to appreciate why this is yelled as a warning in golf.

I'd heard of the terrible twos, Anna sailed right through those. No tantrums, no frustration, the toughest part was separation anxiety. Then people told me that 'three was the new two' and yes, burgeoning self-awareness did bring on more attitude, and that coupled with my pregnancy made for a wearying combination.

Four though. Oy.

I'm not sure how much of this is coloured by the addition of a new sibling, but this new found independence has brought with it a real personality change. I'm all for self-confidence, but I will draw the line at being called a 'brat' by my own spawn when I shut her down on three bedtime stories. "Mumma, you're a brat". No 'Goodnight Moon' for you young lady!

Granted, her outbursts are still heavily influenced by her excellent school - there's no "I hate you" (not yet); thwarted requests for a chocolate milk are often met with an achingly childlike "then I will not be your friend". But please, chocolate milk at 9pm, what kind of a hold-out demand is that? Who are you? France?

There is nascent moodiness and petulance where there was none before. We have foot stamping, arm folding and inanimate object kicking. It's hard not to laugh at the depth of her displeasure. She's like a tiny Queen Victoria, only a mini-monarch that says 'hey guys this is not cool' instead of 'we are not amused'. I appreciate she's just testing her boundaries, but how long is it going to take her to realize there are no boundaries, no ever-changing front line, just a firmly entrenched wall of 'what we say goes young lady'. Until she starts paying rent of course.

Is this just a precursor for pre-teen hormones? Is she learning this from other kids or is it part of being four? It's not a big concern. It just feels like the sunshine has disappeared for a bit. When I mentioned it to her teacher she said, at least she feels confident enough these days to voice her opinions, even if it is displeasure. I hadn't thought of it that way, but I'm still British enough to think, bring back 'meek' - all is forgiven.

Knowledge is a Dangerous Thing

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The Looper

Last week Lucy started sleeping through the night.

By which I mean she would sleep until about 4:30am, which is a stretch of nearly eight and half hours and any mother of an infant will gladly call that sleeping through. I of course have now been programmed to wake up at 2am for the last five months, so for the entire week I was waking up between 2am and 3am thinking 'any minute now, any minute now'. Still, she was sleeping well and my heart was happy; angels sang and I started to plan my future sans sleep deprivation.

That was last week.

This week she has inexplicably reverted to her old, trusty sleep schedule of waking at 12am, 2:30am and 5am. I feel like I've discovered the formula for cold fusion and now can't remember where I wrote it down.

I know babies are capricious little F@c!%s, but how? why? I can't stop wondering what was working and now isn't. Was it the perfect combination of humidifier, fleecy sleep-suit and and old pheromoney t-shirt of mine? Or 8pm bottle of breastmilk, fleecy sleep-suit, and fresh air during the day? Gah! After trying a bajillion combinations of the above for the last 5 months I can safely say I have no idea what works and what doesn't, and I was happily ready to believe she had just outgrown the need for boobing in the wee hours. I am beyond disappointed. I know that at some point before college she is probably going to start sleeping all night but I was rather hopeful it would be before I had died of exhaustion....

On a more cheerful note, the reason I haven't left her in a Moses basket down by the river is a) this is Southern California and we don't got none and b) 5 months despite the lack of sleep is such a perfect baby age. They are beautiful and constantly delighted to see you. They smell good, and are small and lovable without the old-man scrawniness of a newborn. Perfect baby-trap age. I'm thinking of having at least a dozen more. *Wow* I really need some sleep.

And finally, The Looper. I've written about nicknames before and it appears we have finally found one that has stuck for Lucy. My second daughter is clearly an athlete like her father. She just turned 5 months old and she is practically crawling. She throws herself around a room with such determination that if you turn your back for 5 seconds (OK, maybe twenty minutes, I never said I was a good parent...) she has maneouvered herself into the fireplace and is chewing on an ornamental log. She is already able to scooch both legs underneath her in a pre-crawl motion and then propel herself violently forward in pursuit of that elusive Barbie shoe of chokeable death. So why Looper? Fans of Caddyshack may have already picked this up, but there is a scene where Bill Murray is terrorizing a young caddy with a pitchfork while regaling him with a story of when he caddied for the Dalai Lama. He jabs the pitchfork at the caddy's neck and says "I was a Looper, you know, a caddy, a jock". OK, I'll admit it's a little obscure but it fits her to perfection. That girl is a jock. Watch out world.

















Don't be fooled by the apparent sleep-pose. That eye is half-open. She's watching and waiting....

Camping

This weekend a bunch of LK's high school friends (who all seem to live within a 1 mile radius of their former high school - God this town is weird) organized a mass camping trip. I of course declined their generous offer of a night under canvas in a rattlesnake infested camp ground with a 3 year old and an infant - because I am not insane.

Lucy and I deigned to visit for an hour or two and had a wonderful time watching the kids swimming in the river fishing for crawdads, while the adults sipped a margarita.

Now that, is camping.








































I left just as the reality of nothing but hotdogs for dinner was really starting to hit, and I headed back to civilization almost giddy with the idea of an evening alone with the remote control. How hard up do you have to be to consider an night with an infant a vacation?

Meanwhile LK and Anna braved a night in a borrowed tent with a blow-up mattress missing its plug.




That Garnet Hill duvet just screams 'roughing it in the wild' doesn't it?













Santa Barbara is a peculiar bubble. You only have to drive 30 miles north to be in complete wilderness. Full on camping territory, including a Ranger Station which always makes me think of pic-a-nic baskets. LK's friends more or less had the campsite to themselves, except for a couple of well-meaning I'm sure, 7th Day Adventists who distributed literature on the first night no doubt alarmed at the sheer quantity of tequila being unpacked from the assembled Winnebagos.

Poor old LK did not get to experience the campfire drunkenness. Apparently Anna, exhausted by an afternoon of 'swimming' in a knee-deep California 'river' pitched an exhausted tantrum, screamed for Mumma and demanded they both bed down for the night at 9pm. I feel a tad sorry for him, but not too much considering I know full well that if I had stayed the night, I would have been tent-bound by 8:30pm with two children while LK whooped it up with his cronies. Plus Lucy is not sleeping through the night, and I didn't fancy trying to boob her in the pitch black night while venomous things slithered and crawled around us.

I am not an experienced camper. As a child, the one and only time I spent a night in a tent was in the Guides, resulting in an anxiety attack and my thoroughly cross Mum having to come and collect me from a muddy field outside Ripon.

Camping in England means everything suffused in drizzle, firewood too soggy to light and cows tripping over your tent ropes at 5am. Camping in California is the polar opposite. It means punishing heat and dust, poisonous creatures, large wild animals with pointy teeth, grass too dessicated and prickly to sit on and campfires in designated fire pits only. Aren't I making it sound fun? I think it's a vacation if you're a child and you don't have to worry where the next hotdog is coming from, whether you remembered to pack the toilet roll, and you don't care that you've swum in, slept in and lived in the same pair of knickers for the last 48 hours. To me it seems like an awful lot of packing, cooking and washing.

Camping seems to be ingrained in the American psyche much more so than in England. Probably because there is genuine 'wild' here and not just that bit by the river off the A64 near Knaresborough. As far as I can tell, people take a lot of pleasure in moving the entire contents of their house in a massive camper van to somewhere with a nice view and then sitting in a deck chair by that vehicle for the weekend. British people will happily hike 15 to 20 miles in one day but have a desperate need to return to their couch for a cup of tea by nightfall. We are strange races.

It was beautiful to be able to drive across the mountains and see a side of California far removed from the manicured environs of Santa Barbara. It was wonderful to see all the kids splashing it up with their friends. Mrs S. as usual had the forethought to bring inflatables, glow-in-the-dark bracelets and alcohol. The real camping essentials. Our kettle corn was a pale rejoinder.



















I don't think the idea of doing it next year with an 18 month old is any more appealing somehow, but I know I would enjoy waking up to this view through the top of my tent:

One Small Step for Mankind, One Giant Leap for Anna

Anna is starting to show a real interest in learning to read. Helped by her new preschool she is constantly thinking about words, and in particular asking what letters they start with. Examples are, Luh, Luh, leave Mummy alone and O, O, Oh My God stop talking.

To encourage this, and to try and make up for a woeful lack of hands-on parenting in the last few months (thanks Lucy!) I have started doing treasure hunts around the house. Each clue is a piece of paper with a word on it, usually something simple that she can sound out phonetically, such as BALL (oh come on, who doesn't have a giant Pilates ball in their living room?!). This has proved to be so much more successful than just sitting together and helping her read a book. A treasure hunt has purpose, and more importantly, a reward of a few jelly beans at the end.

Ah, bribery, teacher of many a child.

After one of the hundred million treasure hunts I have been asked to devise over the last, morning (you think I jest), I told Anna it was quiet time, and that Mummy needed a rest (read: cocktail). Not realizing I had left her alone in our bed with a pen.

This could have been disastrous, not least for my lovely embroidered Pottery Barn duvet cover - one of the last vestiges of wealthier times. But no, another triumph for absentee parenting! While left to her own devices, Anna had decided to construct her own treasure hunting.

Reading to writing in one fell swoop. I bring you:









"BATH"















The slightly more obscure "BANANA" (great drawing)



































and my personal favourite "HORSE", a clue found on her My Little Pony, and not (if you follow my twisted mind, on LK's stack of Playboys....

OK, maybe it's too early to call Cambridge, but Oxford surely?!

I Maddonari at the Santa Barbara Mission

Our traditional "May Grey" couldn't dampen the vibrancy of these street paintings at the Santa Barbara Mission over the weekend. It even inspired Anna to get a little creative.

Spot which one's hers.....














































































































I'm glad it's a self-portrait and not a drawing of Mummy, otherwise I would have to seriously reconsider my choice of lipstick.

Cross Dressing is the New Black

Me, standing in front of the mirror before work this morning, assessing the impact a few early morning runs, power-walks, an ocean swim, and most importantly a sleek all-black outfit have done for my post-baby body.

LK, drawling - "Hi, I'm Johnny Cash".

US vs. UK - Diamonds

If you want to know the difference between the US and the UK then just look at the ring finger of any married woman.

Even the lowliest toilet-scrubber in the US will be sporting a cantilevered confection bristling with diamonds. I first noticed this while still living in the UK. My home town in North Yorkshire hosts a US Army Intelligence Base so it was not unusual for local women to meet and marry American serviceman. After having done so they could barely lift their left hands because Good Lord - where the UK engagement ring mantra seems to be 'it's the thought that counts' in the US it is definitely 'size matters'. It honestly had me wondering whether diamonds were ten a penny in the States.


















Then I moved over here, and I swear the same DeBeers commercial that rhapsodizes 'how else can one month's salary last a lifetime' is two months salary in the US. I'm convinced I remember the 'one month' yardstick in the UK, but I'll admit I've tried and failed to google some proof of this. Am I just imagining this or are there really different standards in largesse? I really think so. Take a look at any issue of Hello magazine and you will see the wealthiest of Brits sporting the most modest of rings.

I inherited my engagement ring from my Nanna, and while it is definitely on the 'demure' side representing love in the North of England in the late 1930s it is priceless to me.



















Having said that, I realise that whatever I write here may cast me in a jealous light as a result. I do notice what I call the 'Nordstrom effect' of being judged in shops by the lack of a carbon paperweight on my left hand. If you think I'm being paranoid, in high school LK used to teach kids tennis lessons at one of the swankiest clubs in town. The guy in charge pulled him to one side on his first day and told him to be most solicitous to the Moms with the big rings. If their child was worthless, persuade the parent that all he/she needed was extra tuition, if the child showed any talent at all, persuade the parent that private lessons would guarantee acceptance to the Ivy League school of their choice. If the ring lacked carats - don't bother with the kid.

Heart-warming, no?

Obviously there are exceptions to this, and I do know a lot of cool California chicks who sport the most pared-down of wedding bands, no in-your-face bling at all - something that I think is becoming increasingly popular.

Has anybody else noticed this? Any expat Brits out there fighting the good fight with their meek solitaires, or any Americans in the UK wondering why no-one else has 17 diamonds surrounding their 3 carat centerpiece?

Snapshots of Life

There are no pictures of my brother before about 4 months of age, and even then he is dressed in evil brown 1970s polyester and he looks quite rightly furious.

(If I lived any less than 8 THOUSAND miles away right now I would scan those pictures, but it will have to wait to July).

I always thought this lack of photos was odd, and that, coupled with the fact that he is only a year younger than me (which would mean for me to repeat that feat I would have to be pregnant right now! Ha! Holy Mother of God! No!) - these things mean I have always harboured a sneaking suspicion he is a changeling.

Hi Baby Brother!

Except we have exactly the same eyes, nose and mouth and when I walked in to a bar in his University town in North Wales the barman took one look at me and went "bloody hell, you have to be PW's sister". Not that flattering really considering he was at that point a 15 stone bruiser.

Anyhoo.

Back to the point of this. When I asked my Mum why there weren't more pictures of P. when he was an infant she said "your Dad's camera was broken". Which always made me think wha? No photos for posterity because you couldn't fix the camera? You couldn't find a way?

Well, for the last two months my camera has been broken and I haven't been able to take any photos, or more importantly, movies. Lucy has been growing and evolving, throwing out gymnastics moves and achingly cute gurgles and I have been glaring at her telling her we can't afford to record, so please, halt all development. LK obviously has his impressively large and manly camera so I've not been completely without a tool (bizarre sexual word play) but I've missed having my little point-and-shoot camera and my blog has become a barren wasteland of words when I know that all you really want to do is look at the pictures.

But then the recent wildfires made me realize that one of the things you grab in a natural disaster are your photos - your memories - and that made me quash my inner tight-wad and buy a new camera. I need, I want, I must have! I am a one-woman economic stimulus package. To hell with the expense, Lucy was experiencing serious second-child syndrome and I didn't want her growing up with a picture of her at birth and then one of her at graduation.

Except my inner Yorkshireman prevailed (short arms long pockets) and it appears I bought a camera without a memory card. Gah! Which is why there are no pictures from yesterday's ultra hip surfboard convention. An event that LK thought would be peppered with hot Roxy-clad chicks but was instead absolutely choc-a-block with mouth-wateringly athletic and sun-bleached surfer-boys and I had no camera! I can't apologize enough. That's just what you needed to look at with your cup of coffee and pastry on a drizzly Monday morning I know...

I will be buying a memory card today. Watch out world!

Post-Traumatic Stress

Doesn't it seem that all I write about these days are children or wildfires?

Well, today you're in luck. Today I bring you, children and wildfires. Please don't change the channel.

A lot of people have been asking how Anna has been handling the recent inferno/evacuation debacle, which is a good question. Children have a way of seeming to handle the most ridiculously stressful situations with complete oblivion, and then they regurgitate them at a later date to let you know that a) yes they are psychologically scarred for life and b) bad parent, bad parent, sit!

The first time we were evacuated I tried very, very hard not to mention the fire. It was late evening and the fire was behind the house and not readily visible from our subterranean lair. God knows why she believed we were taking our computer, guinea pig and several suitcases to our friends house to 'watch the Lakers game', but she did. Anna therefore recalls this incident as the time all the lights went out and Mummy started swearing. That's right, she doesn't remember the fire but she does remember the other F word.

The first night of the Jesusita fire we were not directly threatened. In fact we put up evacuees. The local school across the road was used as a helicopter staging ground though, and throughout the night helicopters were taking off and landing about 100 yards away. It was like Vietnam. Every 40 seconds one would thunder overhead. Until suddenly at about 4am it stopped. What, suddenly there's a City ordinance prohibiting mass air traffic from 4am onwards but before that's it fine? Regardless, the girls slept through it all. Happily oblivious to the military operation going on outside.

The next day though, the fire couldn't be missed. As I tore across town to pick up Anna, running in to roadblock after roadblock I was becoming increasingly frantic. The fire was an apocalyptic orange-black cloud covering an increasingly large portion of the sky. I sat in the parking lot of Anna's school for a lifetime (40 seconds approx) trying to put my 'hello birds, hello sky' flight attendant smile on so I wouldn't frighten the kids. Anna may have smelt a rat when she said "Momma I need to find my shoes" and through my perma-smile I cried, "we don't need shoes! let's just go home! no shoes! let's just go home! right now!!"

In the car, shoe-less, the fire looming over us I tried to pacify her with Raffi, but Anna wanted to talk about the smoke plume. Any fears that she may be terrified were quickly allayed when she said "Kyra said that cloud is a storm but I said it is a fire. Fuh-fuh-fire. Fire begins with F and so does frog and fashion and I would like to be a fashion princess when I get home when I get home can I put my princessdressonandcanIwearmysparklyshoesand......" You get the idea. There we were driving in to the eye of the fire storm, sirens wailing all around, me fielding phonecalls about my father-in-law packing up our house and our friend evacuating with Lucy, and Anna? She was planning her evening ensemble.

Several hours later, ash falling like snow all around us, we drove out to the Santa Ynez valley to our friend's vineyard. In a typically petulant 3 year old way she complained that she wanted to go home, she wanted to watch Noggin, she didn't like the valley, etc etc but then she fell asleep. The rest of the four days we were evacuated she had a rare old time, playing with her friend K and taking endless baths with her in the ranch's old Victorian bathtub that was so deep Anna disappeared underwater for a time (according to K, she was underwater for "about 8", but K's grasp of time can sometimes be questionable, case in point when I asked her how long her Spring Break was and she said "like, a really long time, I think 13 years, maybe 10".)

Here's some pictures of Anna enduring her forced wildfire evacuation. Doesn't she look stressed?



































It remains to be seen how much this has affected Anna. I know I flinch every time I hear a siren, and I panic if I see anything orange at a distance. I need advice. I don't know how much to talk this through with her. I'm tempted to take my cues from her, but so far she hasn't mentioned the fire at all, which has to be some kind of denial. I don't want her growing up having panic attacks whenever someone produces a lighter. It would be rather embarrassing if she ducked for cover when we lit her birthday candles.

As for the true victims of the fire. Our tenants came to us yesterday to confess that they believe the violent shaking from the low-flying helicopters has caused their toilet cistern to crack. It boggles the mind.