Come On You England

The World Cup begins in less than a month. You cannot escape this fact if you're in England. Every shop has a dedicated 'England' section, home to English flags, union jack mugs and t-shirts, bras and cushions. It's the cushions that grabbed my attention, they are everywhere. Including my suitcase. I couldn't resist. If I am unable to be in England during the World Cup then I will at least transform our house in to a shrine to St. George.

I first saw the Jan Constantine pillows at the V&A Museum in London a couple of years ago, but a diabolical exchange rate and a hefty price tag meant I had to look but not touch. *sigh*

A couple of years later brought 17 billion high street knock-offs, and a plummeting pound (thanks coalition government!) and this meant I could indulge:

I bought this one at Castle Howard:


























LK affectionately calls it my 'crappy gay pillow' and threatens to throw it in the understairs cupboard whenever my back is turned. Poor Falkland Islands cushion marooned on the Argentina of our couch.

This one is my fave:



























Bought for a song at Next and now giving Lucy's room a good dose of colour, jingoism, jam roly-poly and Jerusalem.

I have a feeling these cushions will reach their zenith of usefulness when being thrown at the telly during England's inevitable World Cup defeat, but for now I love them.

I Believe I Can Fly

Both girls spent a huge proportion of our vacation playing in my parent's back garden. Never mind that it was a full 20º (that's centigrade, people) cooler than California. They were impervious to the cold. Granted Lucy was a little puzzled to be straight-jacketed in layer after layer of clothing and topped with an absurdly overlarge hat:




























I wasn't about to be buying any winter clothing for a 10 day sojourn in the UK, particularly as we are hurtling towards our 9 month summer in California, so I just made them wear all their clothes. At once. I was hoping for boho chic, but it turned out more like 'I'm wearing my carry-on'. Of course, now I review my photos, all the English children in the background are wearing nothing but t-shirts, jeans and rosy cheeks and my children look like miniature bag ladies.

Back to flying. Anna was devoted to launching herself off the back patio in an absurd parody of flight:























"Look at me fly Lucy!". She also performed something called 'gliding', not unlike flying, except with an odd contortion towards landing. I nicknamed it the 'spiral fracture'. She was obsessed with 'flying'.

Me, not so much.

As I sit here typing away at 5am (I heart jetlag), I'm still trying to find the words for flying halfway across the world with two under 5s. I've basically concluded that it's not unlike a marriage. We started off well, LK launched a charm offensive on the Continental staff at Manchester Airport, who no doubt snow-blinded by his massive American teeth, let us dodge the hoi-poloi queue and check in interfrastically at the 'First Class' ticket counter. The girls did their best to win over every Mancunian within earshot; "Hi! My name is Anna! I am 4 and 3/4. My Mom is Alison, she is 36! I have 8 My Little Ponies, their names are....." OK, so maybe Manchester was glad to see the back of us, but it started well. I'm sure LK was impressed by my efficient production of paperwork and filing of passports by age and nationality. He probably just didn't want to get caught demonstrating his overwhelming love for me.

But how quickly things degenerate when four family members are stuck in an area the size of a laundry cupboard for 28 hours. I'm not sure we'd even entered International Waters by the time we were both considering divorce. Lucy slept on me and only on me, I still have the armrest pressure sores. Do you know what it's like trying to stop a toddler kicking the seat in front when that seat is practically resting on your knees? I had to admit, the urge to let her keep kicking to gently 'persuade' the passenger in front to push his seat back in to the upright position was strong. I didn't though. I am meek, and do not expect to inherit the earth.

LK on the other hand had the aisle seat, so he was responsible for walking Lucy up and down the plane while she tried to snag headsets and toupees from every passenger. By the time we reached New Jersey we were both pretending we couldn't smell that dirty diaper even though it was mere inches from our noses.

It was hard work. Brutal, really. The jet lag has also been a joy. The girls waking at 3am yesterday morning to demand breakfast and inquire 'why isn't is morning? Is it morning now? What about now?'

It was completely worth every minute though - or maybe I'm suffering a form of childbirth amnesia and I'm already forgetting the true horror. I also know that it has to get easier. Next time Lucy will have her own seat (if she gets a job in the meantime and pays for it.....). She will be easier to reason with, hopefully more inclined to sit still for five seconds and watch a movie. Her sister watched the same episode of Bunnytown for 11,000 miles which means she is either:

a)autistic
b)has the memory of a goldfish
or,
c) awesome!

I am this close to saying why can't you be more like your sister. Except obviously I'm glad they're so different. Now that we're back on the ground.

Busman's Holiday

Is it possible to have a relaxing vacation with small children? Don't get me wrong, I'm very happy we've taken a break and flown to the UK. My accent has already sunk back into it's northern vowels, and my waistline is fighting a losing battle against fish and chips and curry.



We're a week in though, and I still feel like I need a holiday.



Let's just say that Lucy is not quite the seasoned traveller her sister is. On the third flight it took us to get to the UK I had already dismissed the idea of having a third child and ever going anywhere with my youngest daughter again. Lucy was a nightmare. It didn't help that we were re-routed to the south of Ireland to avoid volcanic ash, making the third flight (did I say third flight? I think it bears repeating...) even longer than anticipated.


Anna worked her way through a sticker book, watched endless kids movies thanks to the touch-screen TVs of Continental Airlines, then she announced the need for a nap and fell asleep. Lucy on the other hand wriggled, and screamed, and pulled hair, and kicked her sleeping sister. She spat out the Benadryl we tried to dose her with. She threw countless dummies into inpenetrable corners of the aircraft and then cried for the want of a pacifier. She slept. Fitfully. Gaining an impossible 30lbs every time she dozed, instantly cutting off circulation to my lower limbs. Of course they both chose to gravitate towards me whilst sleeping. I was covered in an impenetrable pile of leaden limbs. LK pretended to be absorbed in his ipad while I tried to spirit my book out of my handbag with my one free hand. Instead I watched the sun rise over the Atlantic and gazed at the cloud of volcanic dust hovering over Ireland, trails of yellow smoke snaking underneath the plane. I tried not to think about ash turning to glass in the engines and killing us all. I tried not to think about murdering Lucy.


When we landed at Manchester, to cold grey skies and rain, we were told that one of our two trains was delayed due to vandalism on the tracks and that we'd have to be bussed between Huddersfield and Leeds. I was so dizzy with tiredness that I managed to lose our train tickets somewhere on the platform. Our ticket collector said the upcoming week was predicted to be 'unseasonably cold'. That is never a good thing in the North of England. I started wondering whether LK and I should have just taken a week off and stayed in bed at home, only venturing out to drop the girls off at school.

Jet lag and small children make a difficult combination and the first three days of holiday were a blur. The girls were not as badly affected as we were. They sleep when it's dark, seemingly oblivious to time zones, but their nap and eating schedules have been thrown off leaving two very irritable girls and much whining. My family have been doing sterling work trying to entertain them, but it's exhausting work. My Mum fell asleep on the couch yesterday afternoon and you can tell my Dad is wishing he could go back to work for a bit of a rest and relaxation. My old bedroom smells like a hospital after an unfortunate projectile vomiting episode last night with Lucy. Who knows what triggered it; tiredness, over-excitement, British soy milk? She exploded in a torrent of liquid. LK dragging her off to the bathroom as she liberally doused everything in sight. What fun.



It sounds horrendous, except with the benefit of a week behind me I am thankful. Grateful that we didn't get stuck in New Jersey due to volcanic ash. Happy that some kind soul at Manchester handed in our tickets and they were returned to us. Thankful for every kind English coffee shop that doesn't sell milk but will happily fill up your baby's bottle for free. Anna turned to Lucy at the train station and said 'Lucy, now you need to know that we are in a country called Manchester and that we're going to England. I get to play with the horses first. It rains here and it's green and they call candy 'sweets.' When she wrote a postcard to her friends at school the first thing she said was 'I know you all miss me but I am in England where the farms come from'.

It's hard work, not relaxing, but it is rewarding. I love showing the girls where I grew up, playgrounds I used to play on, flowers I used to pick, sweets I used to eat. I love seeing the roses they are getting in their cheeks from the cold air. Lucy is going bonkers signing 'bird' as there seem to be so many more of them here than in California. I know we're not going to get a vacation, there will be no lying back with a good book, no unwinding, no rest - but I already have a photo album of memories to make up for it. Who has time for sleep?

The Tao of Anna

Short but achingly sweet:

Anna: There's no such things as monsters really Momma is there?
Me: No, definitely no monsters love.
Anna: Then I guess we have absolutely nothing to worry about!

I wish I could take this from my heart and transplant it to my brain as I lie awake, once again, in the small hours of the morning worrying. Does anyone have any sleep tips? That don't involve medication? I am awake from 2-3am til 4-5am every night. I should hire myself out to look after newborns. After two children have I lost the ability to sleep through the night?

We need a holiday. I may be sleepless, but LK is also stressed. He slept in last Monday (he has Mondays off to look after the girls). For some bizarre reason he woke up thinking it was Tuesday and that I had gone to work leaving him with both girls to get up, dressed, fed and dropped off at their various day-cares before he went to work. Never mind the fact that this NEVER happens. He never has to drop the girls off against the clock, only on Wednesdays when he doesn't have to be at work til the afternoon. Anyway, he went in to LK hyperdrive, running around like a headless chicken cursing me for letting him sleep in, hurling Lucy in to her clothes, telling a sleep-fogged Anna that 'there's no time for crying'! as he buckled them in to the car and gave them cups of dry cereal for breakfast. It was only as he was calling to apologize for Lucy's lateness that my friend Jen said 'it's Monday'. I'm sure she was at that very instant thinking 'wait, it is Monday isn't it?'. Suddenly he was left with an entire day to fill and two tear-streaked daughters in the backseat with nowhere to go. As I say, we need a holiday.

Fortunately for us we have blown caution to the wind and we're going! Home! Volcanoes permitting...... Now I just need to worry about how I'm going to pack.

Careful What You Wish For

I know that years ago, a 17 year old you probably wished for a house full of loose women just waiting for you to come home and scoop them up.

















It feels like someone's playing a huge cosmic joke on you doesn't it?

Happy birthday love.

Career Week

When I picked Anna up at school yesterday they told me she'd had a splinter about a third of an inch long stuck in her hand. It took her teacher over 20 minutes to dig it out using tweezers and then a needle. He said he was pale and clammy by the end of the procedure. Anna on the other hand was fascinated by the whole thing. Apparently she would guide him by saying 'that hurts Jason' but she was so engrossed by the anatomy of the surgery that she was detached from the pain. Or so they said. 'She's remarkable' they added, 'we've never had a kid who's more likely to become a doctor'.

Yeah, or a psychopath. I thought.

In all seriousness though, I still remember the terror of my Mum and Dad digging out a splinter, the smell of 'surgical spirit' and fear mixing in the air. Anna has inherited her lack of squeamishness from my Mum. Maybe from LK's side too, I don't know, the only thing I've seen them tested with is a 10lb diaper change. Anna is a born scientist. Who likes to wear pink. A chic geek.

I retold the story to LK when he got home, including the part about medical school. 'Sounds like she's going to college in England!' was his reply. 'Or we need to start saving', 'yeah, with our ante-money'. Anna chimed in 'I don't want to be a doctor, I want to be a dentist or a veterinarian'. Thanks Anna, much cheaper.

As an aside, a brief what the fuck (WTF) America? Abbreviations are to Americans as queues as to the British. They can't get enough of them. Why then do they insist on saying 'veterinarian'. I mean honestly, I'm exhausted from just typing it. They say 'pk' for penalty kick, 'c-section' for cesarian section and 'ra' for rheumatoid arthritis, yet they can't say vet? Do you really think a vet-er-i-nar-i-an and a veteran will somehow be confused? Bizarre. The same holds true for re-frig-e-ra-tor. I lose my appetite by the time I've said it. For a country that loves it's acronyms both of these words seem unfeasibly long.

Back to Anna. 'I want to be a dentist. But only on Mondays'.

Apparently this is to be her schedule:

Monday: Dentist/Vet

Tuesday: Detective

Wednesday: A hunter with my Dad. He can do the running. ?????

Thursday: Bug detective & scientist

Friday: Flower shop owner

Saturday: The world's top person knowing things about birds.

Sunday: Family day! With horses. And an archaeologist like Dora. Do I have enough days?


No wonder we're having a hard time finding the right school! I know nobody grows up wanting to be a systems analyst or an insurance claims adjuster, but I have to admit I'm pretty impressed and proud of this list.

You go girl, we'll do the best we can.

Love Mum x

Does Size Matter?

I know I’ve been on a bit of an education bent recently and I apologize. I’m sure a lot of you couldn’t care less (well, except for Rebecca and Nimble, many thanks for your kind words). Besides, all that kids do in Kindergarten is eat playdough and play doctor anyway, so what’s the big deal?

Well, not to flog a dead horse or anything, but, I’m more than a little concerned with the education level of our employees who all grew up in California. Recently. Either that, or I need to seriously re-evaluate my hiring policies.

Like, OMG! Today I was asked how to take a third off a bill of $300. I have the hardest time getting people to calculate 120% of the Medicare rate, with a calculator. Don’t get me started on spelling (she writes while scrutinizing her spellcheck for hypocritical errors). Today I corrected the spelling of: should I wright this off, patient has payn in his leggs, and I applyed this to his deductable. These are not typos.

I sound like I’m a hundred years old.

If you grow up with spellcheck are you pre-disposed to not concentrate on spelling? I tend to ignore it (as you may have noticed) as spellcheck takes my Britishisms as a personal affront. If you spend your life using predictive text are you oblivious to correct spelling? Should anyone really care anymore – is it going to be redundant in a matter of years anyway? I have a feeling that we're transitioning to a world of doers, rather than editors, where the details are overlooked. That irritates me, but only because I'm so anal that I would have been a sensation before computers, personal organizers and the like. Now I'm resigned to being a reactionary manager seething at the fact I asked an employee to consolidate our files - stored by year - and she started in the middle....

A lot of people will say the problem is the lack of funding in education. Increasing class sizes and the like. To which my Mum and Dad had a good response. It's their class photo at the top of this post. I say 'their' class, because they are both in this picture, they were in the same classes together until age 11. I won't say which ones they are because if you know me, or them, I'll leave you to guess. They are classic boomers and they had 46 in their kindergarten class.

As my Mum said 'we had a huge primary school class and we turned out alright'.

Or should that be 'allwrite'?

Vitriol

I am in an abusive relationship.

We attempted to transfer Anna out of the truly shitty school district we pay nearly $20,000 a year in property taxes for, and have failed. Everyone told us we should fake it, lie about where we lived like everyone else did - but we decided not to. We took the high road. I feel like the good girl at the prom who wouldn't put out and then watched her boyfriend go off with someone else.

That's what it feels like, as if Santa Barbara is the cute boy in school that everyone thinks the world of, 'oh you're so lucky to live there', 'it's gorgeous', yet behind closed doors Santa Barbara is mean and vindictive, telling you that you don't have enough money, you don't belong, you'll never be good enough.

That's right, I'm having a little pity party over here. Sorry, I sound like a petulant schoolgirl, and I will get over it, I'm just cross and disappointed, and very, very jaded.

We had been told that as our area school is so very poor (it's listed as a 'failing school' and in this State, you can only imagine how bad that is), that we are granted an automatic transfer and are bumped up the transfer list to boot. We were then told that the school we wanted her to go to is full for next year, and that they would hold a lottery for any spots that become available. Anna was in the third batch of kids to be pulled out of the lottery, behind kids with parents teaching at the school (1), kids with siblings at the school (10) and kids transferring from a failing school (17). With the luck of the English Anna came 28th out of 28. It's almost laughable really. Unless they open up an entirely new kindergarten class, or there is a mass defection, then she will not get in.

That was Friday, and I'm already feeling better. I have moved on. There is another option, a smaller school, further away with kids that she knows, a huge garden, a K-1 class for those kids who are (like Anna) already reading quite strongly. It's across the freeway from where Lucy will go to preschool next year (for ease of drop-off, and quite frankly, to make me less nervous about MORE natural disasters separating me from my children). Anna likes the rainbow gate and the rooms full of books.

I feel like the decision has been made for me. Maybe Santa Barbara is showing me some tough love.

Baby Talk

Lucy just turned 15 months old and she is starting to talk. Lush, jammy consonants spoken with heartaching deliberation. She's been saying 'dat!' for months, Dada, and Anne, uttered with the flattest Cockney 'a' of all time. My little Eliza Doolittle. That is the basic baby repertoire, one-consonant descriptors for the people in her life. As is customary, Dada was uttered months before Mama. It's easier to say. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. Now she asks for Mama! and it is rewarding on a cellular level.

Recently she has started branching out. Her first distinct word was 'boon' for balloon, repeated over and over at the supermarket as they danced above her head at the checkout. Then she added 'fssssshhhhhh', a sound like a slow puncture, to describe the fish tank at the dentists. And so it begins. So begins that period of time when you swear they have a repertoire of 30 words but to the untrained ear they all sound like 'duck'. With Anna we wrote them all down on the calendar on the day each new word arrived. I remember November being the 'explosion' month, at least a couple of new words a day. That would have made her a couple of months older than Lucy is now so Lucy is right on track.

Even before she could talk we had taught her to communicate. Sign language worked brilliantly with Anna so at about 4 months we started with Lucy. Just a few basic commands to make life easier. Every time we gave her a bottle we opened and closed our fists to indicate 'milk', before we gave her additional spoonfuls of yogurt we did the sign for 'more', then there is a sign for 'tired' and of course the ever-helpful 'all done' sign. I tried taking a picture of these, but it's hard to get Lucy to sign 'milk' when she's not hungry, and woe betide anyone who attempts to take her picture when she is signing a genuine need for milk because you will end up with this:




















Poor thing, I'm trying to point and click and she's pumping her fist as if to say 'FUCK! MILK!' why are you torturing me?!

And that's the funny thing about sign language, signs can evolve and take on new meanings, or inadvertently be attached to the wrong thing. Lucy's sign for milk is done when she wants a bottle, or when she wants anything. In her mind she's not saying 'milk' she's looking at the proffered bottle and saying 'hell yes!', which is how she reacts when you're holding some chocolate and she signs 'milk' as if to say 'dude! hand it over - I want that' and when you laugh (cruel parent that you are) at her desperate attempts to communicate need she will start squeezing both fists at the same time as if to say 'are you not listening? what's wrong with you people. Fuck, I'm surrounded by morons.'

Sign language has been brilliant and will continue to be a big help in the transition to real words. The other day Lucy switched from saying 'Anne' to the delightfully juicy Anne Na. Two fat, luscious syllables, she was so pleased with herself. Anna came racing in, 'Mom! Loop said Anna! Me! Listen!'

"Anne-Na" (grin)
"See! Good girl Lucy!"
"Anne-Na!"
"Lucy say Anna!"
"Anne-Na!"
"See? She's saying my name"
"Anne-Na"
"Mom she won't stop"
"Anne-Na!" (proud smile)
"Mom make her stop"
"ANNE-NA!" (huge smile)
"Mom make her go away"

Oh it's going to be so much fun. Anna already talks as it she's on a one-woman mission to use up all the oxygen in a room, and to be fair I'm no slouch. Lance is muttering about needing a man-cave.

In At The Deep End

How did you learn to swim? Swimming classes? Individual swimming coach? Thrown into a disused quarry? I can't remember how and when I learned. I remember Saturday mornings at the 'baths' and doing my 100m swimming badge, my silver lifesaver in pyjamas. I remember armbands but not them being taken away. I'm sure it was a traumatic experience for both me and my parents.

I am not a fish in the water, more like a tin of tuna. It took me three triathlons before I would even consider doing anything but the breaststroke. Unfortunately Anna has taken after me in this respect.


























We have free access to a gorgeous, mostly empty outdoor pool (Anna thinks England is hil-arious because they have swimming pools in houses....). We go there almost every week and Anna is finally learning to swim. I know there are plenty of 4 year-olds out there who don't know their butterfly from their dolphin crawl but with so much exposure to the water you would have thought....

Except it was the exposure to the water that was always the problem. She hates water in her face. If she gets splashed in the bath she will scream 'I need the big towel!!'. Apparently some people have a more sensitive 'drowning reflex' than others, and Anna seems to have inherited mine. Lucy on the other hand is part eel and at a lowly 6 weeks old LK was whispering 'are you going to be my surfer?' as she sat in the sink - reveling in the water and not caring in the slightest if her face was wet.

Interestingly, Anna loves being in the pool - on the proviso that her arm bands are heavily inflated and she is 60% out of the water at all times. If you've ever seen my Mum execute the 'ladies dry-hair butterfly' at the local swimming baths you will know that this is a genetic trait. We had a pool party for her 4th birthday, and some of the kids could swim and some still had floaties. It's not an issue of her being 'behind', I just long for the days when I can lie by the pool with a beer and a good book while the girls splash happily and independently in front of me. For that elusive goal of some 'me time' (I'm writing this at 3am) we had to take action.

We had heard that it's hard for parents to teach their kids to swim and that was certainly the case for us. We tried treats and rewards, slow deflation of her arm bands (this left her partially submerged and worried, like an anxious hippo), good old encouragement, and threats that her sister would learn before she would. Nothing worked. After over 4 years we had managed a couple of seconds with her face in the water in exchange for a barbie. At that rate she would have us bankrupt before she learned the crawl.

She is cautious by nature and it is very hard to get her to do something she's scared of. She hates; crowds, loud noises, water in her face, waves, large men, performing in public, new situations....you get the picture. We hired a pro. Before the lesson we outlined our hopes and concerns. "Well, how is she in the bath?" asked the teacher "I need the big towel!" we replied. "The shower?", "bottom water only - no shower head Mumma".

"I see" said Sarah.

Anna had her second lesson yesterday and she is already swimming several strokes of the doggy paddle underwater. Completely submerged except for her flower-clad bottom. You could have knocked me over with a feather - except I was too busy trying to stop Lucy from hurtling fully-clothed in to the deep end - that child is fearless. How can they be so different?

Anna even begged for more time. Goggles have certainly helped (thanks Lorna!!) but the key has been her instant bond with her teacher and the fact that the excitement over learning to swim and her desire to please are greater than her fear. She can do breaststroke kicks (frog kicks), the crawl (scooping ice cream) and mini-dives (humpty-dumpty).

Someone order me a pool-side cocktail, I think this is going to be a good summer.

Alien

One of the strangest things about being an expat is going back and forth between feeling like you have two homes, or feeling like you belong nowhere. Two sides of the same coin.

I spend my life in the States 'being English', it's my defining characteristic over here - well that and the mother-of-two-under-five pallor. When I go 'home' though, everyone talks to me as if I'm an expat, an outsider. This happens to everyone who leaves their home, whether it be a home town, country, or continent.

Two things have happened recently that have made me feel like I'm not quite as English as I pretend to be. Firstly, we're going back to England in a month (yay!) and this coincides with a general election. I immediately thought about having the opportunity to vote for the first time in 15 years (I am not an American citizen). I take the right to vote very seriously. Then it hit me - what right do I really have to vote in a country where I haven't been resident in almost 15 years? I have more to say about the politics of the US these days. Healthcare reform, education cuts, these things will directly impact my day to day existence. I could vote by party lines in the UK, but even those have probably changed dramatically since I've been gone. At what point do I admit that I've lost touch?

Then there's my need for contraception. We want to have more kids. We can't afford to have more kids. We can't afford the two we have quite frankly. I need a long term contraceptive solution that is not permanent (not the snip) just in case we win the lottery, but I can no longer tolerate hormonal solutions - that is an entirely different blog post. The copper IUD seems the only obvious solution, except that my genius American health insurance doesn't cover it. It's over $800 out of pocket here thanks to private healthcare gauging, and it's free on the NHS. I called my doctor in England this morning hoping to get it sorted out while I'm over there so I could save the equivalent of a plane ticket. I was surprised at how American I sounded on the phone. I had to make a concerted effort to speak English. I got the feeling they thought I was milking the system asking for healthcare when I no longer live there and no longer pay taxes. They were right. I'm still entitled to free healthcare but do I feel like I can justify it? Am I still owed it by birthright? After all I've 'chosen' to live in a country that withholds long term contraception because it won't afford my insurance company a monthly copay. More fool me.

I'm conflicted. I've decided to pay for my IUD over here, or at least investigate payment options or a different health plan. Damn you Blue Shield! I don't think I'll vote in the UK unless I can spend some time researching the issues, and reading the BBC magazine online in the mornings doesn't count. I'm still not ready to call America my permanent home but it seems that I'm starting to realize that I'm not a full British citizen any more either.

At what point do you let go?

Happy Easter

I woke up this Easter morning to a screaming 1 year old and the kind of hangover that only a girls night in a bar full of sugary cocktails can produce. Lucy wailed her sympathies in to my right ear. She has four teeth coming in at the same time. As someone who experiences fast labours I can sympathize - her pain is brutal, yet efficient. I never get to go out these days. LK took one look at my pale green complexion and raccoon eyes and said 'poor you, you finally got off your leash and you ran right in to traffic'.

Our kitchen counter was celebrating the Lord's day with a perfect coffee stain crucifixion. Someone was obviously trying to tell me something; it was either, go to church and celebrate that Jesus is risen, or, have a strong cup of coffee and sort yourself out. I chose the latter.

Lucy's pitiful screams had woken up her sister so I didn't get to race upstairs and place her chocolate bunny by the side of her bed. Instead I propped it up outside her door and did a little 'I think I just saw a bunny racing down the stairs' routine when she emerged from her room.

She wanted to know what the bunny looked like. My dessicated brain described something akin to Peter Rabbit; small, brown, furry etc. Anna furrowed her brow. 'Dada said when he saw him last year he was large and white, with white fur'. She didn't seem suspicious, just confused. It was too much for my poor hungover grey cells. I muttered something about him wearing a brown jacket and moving too fast to be sure. LK later gave me a verbal beatdown about not knowing what the Easter Bunny looked like. To which I replied - nobody knows what he looks like, he's a figment of the collective imagination. 'Like Santa Claus?' he replied? Touché.

Still, Anna refused to be thrown by the brown rabbit/white bunny controversy and a good time was had by all foraging for eggs in a friend's garden. We nursed Irish coffees like good parents and laughed at Lucy trying to hold an Easter basket whilst tripping on gopher holes.

Good times. Happy Easter all.

Be All That You Can Be

One thing you need to know about Americans is that they don't do things by halves. They will always go that extra mile, and usually by car.

If I had to give America a motto it would be 'Be All That You Can Be, Or Die Trying'. I can imagine America saying "thanks Ali, and here's your motto 'shut up'".

Got a gift that needs wrapping? In England we'll just about remember to scratch off the price tag. Over here they'll wrap it, cover it ribbons and bows, put it in a gift bag with tissue paper, and then attach a card and smaller present tied on (with ribbons) to the gift bag.

Call me cynical, but nothing embodies this mantra more than holidays. I've already beaten the 'land of the free*' *except for free time horse to death on this blog, but having just been through Valentines, followed by St. Patricks, and now Easter it seems there is a collective delusion that if we celebrate a holiday it'll actually feel like we had some time off work - instead of just adding more shit to do.

I'll apologize in advance for the negative tone of this post, but it's 5am and I have a mental hurricane of a LOTTD (list of things to do) that is exploding out of my ears and preventing sleep.

Fortunately Anna's school doesn't take a hard line on festivities. We made Valentines, but they were optional. If optional means watch your child receive a bunch of paper hearts and candy and ask where her valentines for her friends are Mummy. St. Patrick's Day came and went with us dressing Anna in a tasteful pair of green knickers (take that Ireland!!!!) and her coming home having celebrated 'Save Patrick Day' by making 'Leper Corn' traps in the school garden. Really, America, leprechaun traps? Several of her friends at school arrived having made these at home (more stuff to do people!) and I will admit they have charm - you make a small box and decorate it with things an Irish leprechaun might like, pennies, shiny things, (Guinness, semtex?), then you leave it somewhere in the hopes that in the morning you'll have caught a genuine California leprechaun. Or that dastardly imp will have nicked your silver and you'll be left thinking better luck next time. It's cute and Anna was very industrious making traps all over the place. I expect the local spiders and slugs had a field day.

In England, Easter involves guilting every known relative in to giving you a large hollow chocolate egg filled with more chocolate. Over here there is a lot more to it. You dye eggs, you craft baskets, you hunt eggs, and then you kill them! No, not really, then you open them and say, Hurrah! Candy! I know it's a lot of faff, but it is a lot of fun. I would have loved a childhood that involved Easter egg hunts. I have a feeling my brother and I would have killed each other over even just three or four hidden eggs. If only my parents had known.

One of the first hunts I went to over here was at my friend C's house. Anna was tiny, and being the uber-competitive Mum that I am I was incredibly frustrated at how she would stroll up to each egg, exclaim at it's beauty, then painstakingly slowly open it to reveal - candy! Which she would then s-l-o-w-l-y open and consume while older children collected baskets of eggs and cold hard cash (my friend C is who you need to know on the Easter Egg hunt front btw).

America's next holiday is far more my style. Cinco de Mayo. Someone pour me a margarita please, I need to practice.

Teaching Your Child To Boil Eggs

Me: ......already dreading the answer....."Err, Anna what's that slimy stuff all over your dress?"

Anna: "Well, Mom, I was finding myself an egg to eat for lunch but none of the ones I opened were white inside".

Me: "How many did you open?"

Anna: "A lot, why?"

Self Soothing For The Inept

When Anna was little she needed to have a good fistful of my hair in order to sleep.

I used to lie there thinking how bad must I have been in a previous life to have ended up at such a pass. Of course, you could call in to question our parenting which had allowed the situation to develop in such a way.

In the middle of the night, to seek comfort, she would grope and scrabble her tiny toddler hand at the nape of my neck. Making sure she had only the finest and most painful of hairs, she would then wrap her sticky fingers around them and pull.

I would long for a child with an attachment to a teddy bear, a blanket, another human being....anything that would free me of the nighttime torture. We even considered using a wig as a placebo. That's when you know you're past the point of sanity;

'Err, what the fuck's that matted hairy object in your child's hand'
'Oh, it's her comfort toupee. You know, like a blankie, but so, so much weirder'.

Exactly.

Even now if she's poorly or overtired she will cry 'I need your hair'. I am worried she will end up a hair fetishist, or even worse, attracted to men like Fabio.

I never in a million years imagined things could get worse.

Enter Lucy. You would have thought we would have taught her to self-soothe. Perhaps learned a little parenting discipline. But no, my girls are genetically programmed to seek physical solace from others. This does not bode well for their teenage years.

Lucy shows no interest whatsoever in my hair. She likes flesh. Sensitive flesh. My underarm looks like I have a poorly concealed heroin habit. She pinches, she uses her tiny light fingernails to form a perfect razor-edged vice then she gives you a good hard squeeze. If she's not doing that, she's burrowing her fingers as far up your nose as possible, pinching your under-eye skin, neck, or nipple. Why do I tolerate it? Perhaps path of least resistance parenting will make a fool out of us all. Only five minutes of this behaviour and she drops off guaranteed. It may be 4 minutes and 59 seconds too long, but it's foolproof. The only saving grace is that she doesn't limit this behavior to me. She is quite happy to cuddle up to any victim and go through the same pre-nap, pre-sleep abuse. My friend who takes care of her during the week is equally thrilled with her habit - I think her exact words were:

FUCK!

My goal is to make you feel like a better parent - and I've succeeded haven't I?

Spring Flowers

“I feel Springish” announced Anna on the way to preschool this morning. She was wearing a flowery sundress, flip-flops and copious amounts of sunscreen. White blonde hair pulled back in to a ponytail, lip gloss over 50% of her face and a healthy glow from the last few days of sunshine. Every inch the little Californian.

In comparison the mood in the front seat was decidedly wintry as I have failed to win both the HGTV Dream Home (there goes my entire financial plan for the year) and a lottery place at the Wine Country Half Marathon – there goes my newly found waist, because it will be very hard to motivate my arse out of bed in the mornings if I don’t have to run 13 miles in May.

Having said all that, Anna is right. Spring has sprung in Southern California. We’ve had an unusually wet and cold winter. Imagine me making air quotations when I write both of those words as ‘wet’ and ‘cold’ are both highly subjective and would garner us a good kicking from anyone living on the Eastern Seaboard this winter.

Overnight we are back to high 70s, glorious sunshine and a verdancy you rarely see in this area of the world. The hills are lush with vegetation, even the burn areas from last year's fire are beautifully greened over. The air is literally heavy with jasmine and eucalyptus (LK has the streaming eyes and nose of the allergy-ridden to prove it).

I decided a family outing was in order. We packed the family in to the car and made for the hills, destination Figueroa Mountain, home to carpets of wildflowers; orange poppies, purple lupins, fiddlenecks, Johnny jump-ups and blue dicks. I'm not making those up .

I envisioned hours of Anna pirouetting on the mountainsides a la Julie Andrews , with me in the
background yelling ‘don’t pick them, just look, don’t touch, don’t pick them, someone stop Lucy eating them, this is a fucking nightmare..….’.

It didn’t quite pan out that way. It was beautiful, there were flowers, just not hillsides full of them. Anna kept repeating ‘this is NOT Figueroa Mountain’. A real ‘wildflower mountain’ does not live up to the Dora image of ‘flower mountain’ I can tell you. There was a lot of subversive muttering from the back, so LK said "you know what? I’m thinking the flower cows got there before us and ate them all, so, if we just drive really fast and getahead of them then bingo, flower central’.

There was a pause while the information was digested.

"Dada, I don’t think there is such a thing as a flower cow." She sighed. "I think people just forgot to water them".

Here are the few that we did see:

Let Us Prey

As your kids get older you brace yourself for the larger questions in life. We've already had adventures with sex, sexuality and reproduction. Obviously Lucy appearing 'out of Mom's butt' was one area of intense discussion. Then there was the time that she made a grab for LK's distinctly male anatomy as he exited the shower. 'Dada's not comfortable with that!' was his hasty reply.

I'm with Atticus Finch on the issue of kids questions. Be truthful, and succinct. They know when you're covering something up. Especially if it's a penis.

It turns out though that you can still dodge some pretty big bullets if you're lucky enough and your kid is on the naive side of 5.

LK and I were watching 007 the other night and Anna came downstairs for a glass of water.

"What's this? Is this a Dada movie? Can I watch it?"
"No, it's not for kids. It's James Bond"
"James Barn? About animals?"
"Err, not really"
"Why can't I watch it"
"It's got scenes we don't want you to see"
"Like what, like fighting?"
"Exactly"
"Oh, I get it like 'it's mine, no mine, mine, no mine!!'

Well, you tell me a better explanation of a James Bond plot.


We skirted an even bigger minefield with the following gem in the car as we were driving home from the park.

Anna "Mom, what does it mean to pray?"
Me: Crap! Be calm....errmm,
LK: Turns whilst driving, smiles and raises his eyebrows as if to say 'have at it hoss'
Anna: "And why don't we do it?"
Me: "Well" my mind was a swirling mass of 'belief systems' and 'faith' and 'personal choice' and then...
Anna: "Why do only dinosaurs do it?"
Me: "-------"
Anna:??
Me: WTF? "What?"
Anna: "My book says dinosaurs prey on smaller dinosaurs. What does that mean?"

Collective sigh of relief.......

An Education

One of the only films I’d seen at this year’s Oscars was An Education – well, that and the entire Best Animated Film category – such is my life right now.

Despite being a virtual recluse I still like to watch the Oscars. I’ve never got over the novelty of being able to watch them in real-time as they take place just down the road. If you consider 'down the road' to be 100 miles on the 101 freeway and 3 hours in bumper to bumper traffic. Practically right next door.

Jeff Bridges is a SB local and I got to meet him a few times when I started my fantastic downhill slide in to career oblivion by temping at a production company in town. He is an absolute diamond, and will even stop to talk to the help, so I was thrilled when he was up for a chance on an Oscar. Plus my friend Chilly always throws a brilliant Oscar party complete with champagne, nibbles and most importantly – no children. Wonderful.

I almost didn’t see An Education, and that would have been a huge mistake. It was brilliant and I loved every minute of it - not just because my friend had once again smuggled two bottles of wine in to the cinema. Towards the end she snuck back to her seat after nipping off to the loo and said in a comically loud whisper 'I've just stolen another poster' and then flashed her coat like a 1950s dirty old man.

I’d read a brief description of the plot a few weeks before finally seeing it and had been thoroughly turned off by the ‘naïve schoolgirl meets older man’ story. Just before Christmas Anna and I made one hundred million paper chains (it was raining) and for some reason whilst cutting strips, gluing and wondering when LK would get the chuff back home (me) we managed to watch both My Fair Lady and Gigi back to back. Now I’m not a big musical aficionado but I love both of these films. Watch them one after another though and you get this disturbing idea that a young girl’s sole destiny is to be rescued by a much older and richer man when she’s practically still in school. As I sat there with my 4 year old daughter I wondered if I'd be quite so thrilled for her to hook up with Henry Higgins or Gaston Lachaile a mere twelve years later. Perhaps all these Disney movies I'm watching with their girl-meets-prince-and-marries-him-twenty-minutes-later plots are getting to me.

An Education is different. It's smart, beautifully written, hilarious in parts and they all live happily ever after. Sort of.

I can't wait to see what movie I will see in 2010.....

What Are The Chances?

I started running in January. I'm training for a half marathon, and by
training I mean that I still haven't completely given up on the idea.

My goal, the Wine Country Half Marathon is on May 8th and I have a training schedule courtesy of Nancy who led me to Jeff Galloway's website. I run for 20 minutes on a Monday, 30 minutes on a Wednesday , and then my 'big run' on a Saturday.

On Monday or Wednesday I have two choices, I either fight for a sweaty gym treadmill during peak post-work hours or I get up at some godawful time while the rest of the world sleeps and I run round the barrio where I live. I reckon the gangstas are all tucked up in bed at that time. Except this is California, and while we're sleeping the rest of the world is working away, which makes us feel like we're behind, so we all wake up and head off to work between 5am and 6am which is crazy. You would be amazed at how many downtown offices have people at their desks before your average Yorkshireman has even hit snooze for the first time. You should see us partying at night though! 9pm and the West Coast is done. Fast asleep. Snoring through our pinot noir stained teeth. It's not the Hollywood lifestyle you would imagine.

Monday mornings I am a streak of pasty whiteness gasping for breath like a dying cod as I plod around the local pavements. Take for example this Monday as I lay in bed doing a mental 'if I run now it's over with, compared to having to go the gym tonight, but on the other hand it feels a bit chilly, and I would really like to just lie here in my giant fluffy bed and not drag my carcass around the neighborhood.' Guilt ridden I scraped my hair into a ponytail, put a sports bra under my nightshirt (truly), pulled on my joggers and off I went. In to the largest collection of workmen every congregated. Apparently a tree had fallen down in the night blocking the entrance to the high school. 30 Caltrans workers checking out your pyjamas is an excellent incentive to run faster I find.

I've been running for nearly two months now and I'm up to being able to run 8 miles without needing CPR. I'm definitely noticing a difference with all this exercise - namely I'm hungry all the time and I've gained 4 pounds. I know it's muscle, but still, harrumph.

I do know that I'm getting fitter obviously, and I'm clearly reshaping the post-birth flab landscape - I have a waist now which is somewhat of a revelation for my usual 'drawn using only a ruler' figure (no curves...). Also my original jogging trousers had to be retired after they failed to stay up during one of my final runs in January. Clearly I was making progress, and progress needs to be rewarded so after the first month of sticking to my schedule I took myself off to 'Lucy' and spent a small fortune on proper running clothes that would gain acceptance at the swankiest gym.

After 6 weeks I decided that this wasn't just a passing fad, and that I may just be able to achieve my goal so I sat down to sign up for the race. The reason I'd put it off before was the cost - $100. Now what about a half marathon could possibly cost $100? You have to be committed at a price like that, I don't care if the 'complimentary' race t-shirt is 'moisture wicking'.

So after much inner-wrangling I decided to sign up. My logic said that I'd stuck it out this far, and quite frankly if you could pay someone $100 to make you fitter, happier and left with a tremendous sense of accomplishment in 2 months time, then it seems like a no-brainer. I pulled up the website to sign up.

Sold out.

Gutted.

I put myself on the waiting list, and apparently I have a 15% chance of getting a spot. Now, I have been signing up for the HGTV Dream Home every day for the last six weeks, and while I'm convinced that my one in a million chance of victory is a sure thing as far as that's concerned, the approximately 1 in 6 chance I have of getting in to this race is making me think I haven't got a hope. Mental. I know there are other races, Bay to Breakers in San Francisco springs to mind, but it's not the same.

The drawing for the remaining spots is March 15th. Keep your fingers crossed for me.

Shot Through The Heart

Once again we have survived the charade of Valentines Day. 18 handcrafted hearts, one for every child in Anna's school plus her teachers. Sometimes I think this has to be the real meaning of 'No Child Left Behind'.




















We spent the week cutting out colourful paper hearts, we glitter-glued the edge and Anna painstakingly wrote every child's name. Taj was a breeze but we had to craft an extra large heart for Aleshandra. I think Anna's was the only name that wouldn't send a spell-checker into a frenzy. Every name so outlandishly distinctive that Anna ends up sounding unique. I wonder what it's going to be like next year with two children in school. 36 valentines. 36 shop-bought hearts I can predict right now....

On the way back from school Anna worked her way through her valentines stash, carefully sorting those with jewels and candy from the rest. She handed me mine. 'My family' by Anna K. 'I love my family when we go for ice-cream. I love my family when we get to have candy at the park', the usual pre-diabetic fare. Her teacher had 'interviewed' each child and transcribed their words. Then I read 'sometimes my Mom scares me'.

What?

Say that to my face little girl and I'll give you 'my Mom scares me'. There it was, in laminated perpetuity, 'my Mom scares me'. I'm wondering if I can just hide the heart, no-one need ever know. I can already hear LK saying 'no shit, you scare me most of the time too'.

I start to second-guess myself; the early-morning military-style leaving the house routine, the insistence on wearing underwear in public places.........I decide to interrogate. Hold the water-boarding. 'What do you mean by I scare you, love?'

"You know, you scare me, my teacher says Sofie and I play nicely, the other friends do too but we play the niceliest"

"That's nice", focus dammit!! "but I scare you?"

"Yes. When you jump out and go 'RAWR'"

Oh yay I think. Reprieve! But then I read the next line 'but she's kind of nice'.

So great, I'm either a monster or I've given birth to a politician. I wonder which is worse.

Static Electricity

\

Feminine Hygiene Products

I shudder to think what this title is going to do to my Google ads, but I will plough on regardless.

One of the only downsides to getting your body back to normal after having a baby, is getting back to flying the red flag once a month. Now you know you have married the right man when he calls you from Costco and you can ask him to buy you a jumbo pack of tampons and he doesn't run screaming with embarrassment - although I do have to call them 'corks' so's not to injure his man-ears.

For some reason in the States it is almost impossible to buy a tampon without an applicator. I'm sure some of you readers are falling off your chairs in shock at the thought of how else do I get it up there, *shudder*? Even in these eco-friendly times it is harder to find an applicator-free tampon than it is to find a Californian without a flip-flop tan. Carrying around an arsenal of torpedoes instead of a tiny and discreet Lilette is something I have learned to live with. What I was not prepared for was LK coming back with 96 scented tampons.

WTF?

Turning a blind eye to the fact that he might have been trying to tell me something, I ask you, scented tampons - really? Are people that squeamish about periods that they think they have to deodorize themselves? The idea of putting chemical anything up there is abhorrent. Are people really so repelled? I wonder if it's an American thing - hairlessness, multiple showers, body deodorant, feminine wipes, I think they've reached the zenith of sanitization over here.

In LK's defence, I'm sure he was just grabbing the first appropriately titled product in the entire embarrassing aisle - but I've never seen these before. Are they new? Are they in the UK? Are they going to be returned to Costco? Oh yes.

What To Buy A One Year Old

First of all, I'm sorry. My life has been frantic lately. My work life, out of control. You hear people saying 'my Monday morning was so crazy that when I looked at the clock it was already 5pm' - well, I look at the clock and it's already Thursday, which is my Friday, so don't be feeling too sorry for me.

I haven't had time to write, think, or most importantly read your blogs (so sorry, but in the meantime, congratulations on that birth/new job/move/mole removal - I will catch up soon). There is no room in my overstuffed brain for thought processing. I was at a big meeting this week where the jumble in my head actually leaked out of my mouth in a horrific torrent of 'oh my God I'm actually saying all this in front of a crowded room full of people and I'm veering violently off topic, and what was my point again, and how do I wrap this up and make them think I had a point and oh Lord they all now look as confused as I feel'.... I ended my public speaking ramble with 'you know,....right?' which just screams professionalism I say. I am like a Mac running PC software - full of useless information; birthdays, school meetings, appointments, shopping lists, job deadlines. I need a re-boot, or perhaps five minutes and a cup of tea, we shall never know.

Anyway, my point.

It amazed me how much I'd forgotten about infants and toddlers, case in point when I was confronted with Lucy's birthday being two weeks after Christmas. What the hell do you buy a one year old, and then two weeks later, what the hell do you buy a one year old? I always like to ask Anna for suggestions. When I asked her what I should get my Dad for his birthday she said 'a San Francisco magazine' ??? And for Christmas she thought I would appreciate a new bra. In red. Anyway, I promised myself I would write this down just in case we have a third child, my brother has a child, or someone googles 'birthday present for a one year old - red bra, appropriate or no?'

I would highly recommend these three things in order of price:

Touch and Feel books/cards - You cannot sit for more than three minutes in our house without Lucy thrusting a book/card in your face and screaming 'da!' She loves to touch the shiny fish, stroke the puppy, tickle the cat's whiskers. It all sounds a little porno but I promise you it's good, clean educational fun.






















Secondly: Busy Ball Popper - I think there are a couple of versions out on the market. I was dubious at first, but it turns out that a machine that musically spits out balls is mesmerizing for a toddler. She will fly across the room to get to this thing if it's on and will then sign 'again' until you wish the William Tell Overture Muzak would put you out of your misery. I thought this might be a big, plastic, noisy waste of money, but it is bang on the money for kids ages 1 to 36yrs guaranteed. The only downsides are lightning fast battery depletion and balls that magically disappear - oh and do not entertain the idea of bringing this in to your house if you have a dog as it will be destroyed within minutes.
























and finally.....A Rody

A what? Darling, you obviously don't live in Italy, or Santa Barbara, because these things are a plague. Anna swears it's a llama (because of the ears Mumma). When we discussed whether it could be a horse, a goat, an alpaca, or a defunct Olympic mascot, she rolled her eyes and said (I quote), "It is a llama. Because of its ears. You people need to stop talking now. I am tired of hearing this". I see a career in teaching.

Whatever its genus, it is bright, cheerful, wickedly fun and bouncy for an active toddler - rather like a four legged space-hopper, and it's a damn sight cheaper if you buy it online. Trust me. It does come with a stand which I frugally neglected to purchase, as such it's a little unstable for small legs, so after several crashes we've now named it the 'llama of death' and that's all I have to say about that.

Colour Blindness

We're in the process of looking at schools for Anna.

Urggh.

California schools are ranked 48/49/50th (depending on your sources) out of 50 states, and the school that Anna should, geographically, be going to is ranked in the bottom 10th percentile of California schools. I have been lying awake thinking about this.

As awful as that sounds, it turns out it could play to our advantage, because her district school is a 'failing' school and that gives us a bump up the transfer list to a choice of other Santa Barbara schools. This is according to the School District, and against a barrage of heartfelt advice telling us to lie about our address, we are playing by the rules and attempting to legally transfer in to a good school.

No, I don't know what we're going to do if the transfer fails. We don't have a plan B, other than move to England where Anna would already be a year behind in school.

Agghhh!!

Now, there are many schools to choose from in Santa Barbara; dual-language immersion schools, charter schools, alternative schools, religious schools, crap schools, bad schools, failing schools and awful schools, but they mostly fall in to two camps; rich and white, and poor and hispanic. This makes me angry.

I don't want to purge all this vitriol your way as you are most likely reading this looking forward to a nice weekend, so I will tell you the story of Anna's perspective.

Thank God for Anna.

We have been trying to keep Anna out of the school discussions, because, should the worst happen and she end up going to a sub-par school we would like her to be oblivious of that fact. We were talking the issue over with a hispanic friend of ours who happened to go to the school we would like Anna to go to. Anna was quietly crayoning in the corner. I said 'the bottom line is I have as much fear of her going to a Montecito school as a barrio school. I don't want her growing up thinking the whole world is white'. Quick as a flash, Anna butted in:

"Mom! (eye roll) I know the whole world isn't white! It's mostly green and blue, the only white bits are the Arctic and the Antarctic".

Can I put that on her application?

Too Close For Comfort

For almost two years now Anna has been old enough to use the toilet by herself. I can tell you're already thinking, this post is going to be great! She runs upstairs and only very rarely asks for assistance.

Of course, flying solo does not always go according to plan and she will often forget to wipe (don't ask how I know that) or will forget to wash her hands, or worse, I will come upstairs after twenty minutes to find that hand-washing has now morphed into 'sink soup' involving soap, horrifyingly healthy squirts of Molton Brown lotion and toothpaste.

She can't use the facilities by herself when out and about though, so in that case we always have to go together. She has a fear of 'rheumatic toilets', read, automatic toilets, the ones that flush when they no longer sense your presence. A little troublesome if you're a waif of a 4 year old as they often decide you're no longer there when you're in the middle of your very delicate procedure and WHOOSH! the terrifyingly loud cyclonic action flushes right beneath your tiny derriere. She will hold back the Nile if it means avoiding a rheumatic toilet.

For the last two years going together to public bathrooms has been an adventure. I will long remember her heartfelt cry of 'You did it Mom! You did a poop!' in the Nordstrom stalls, 'this one's going to be a Dada poop' at full volume in a posh restaurant loo, or my least favourite 'your butt is really hairy Mom' (at 8 months pregnant bikini waxes were not high on my agenda). Her latest gem, uttered last weekend in our local cafe toilets, really cracked me up. We were washing our hands, wondering, with barely concealed excitement whether the hand soap was going to be white (usually), blue (boring) or pink (squeal!) when she turns to me and says...

"Err, Mom, I think that you're forgetting that you left some toilet paper in my butt'.

You're on your own there sister.

The Big One

Lucy, first of all I'd like to apologize for taking entirely awful photos of you all year. When I could drag myself out of my sleep deprivation and point a camera your way I mean. I think I have four good photos of you in total, and maybe two of them are in focus.

For the first six months of your life you had comically sleepy eyes, causing your Dad to name you 'Popeye' and your sister to parrot 'Pot Pie'. I was worried about your eyelids. You constantly looked like you'd had a really rough night the night before, and to be honest, you often had. Even so, some days I thought you'd have to go through life with your neck at a 45º angle just to be able to see straight. My Mum told me to stop being overly critical. The doctor said 'as long as the lid doesn't cover her pupils she will be fine'. Big sigh of relief. Then he said 'but, while we're on the subject, have you noticed that her pupils aren't centered in her irises'. To which I said ' -- '.

Turns out he was right:





















Perhaps I shouldn't have had quite so much wine right before I found out I was pregnant.

Anyway, you're fine. Weird, but fine. Apparently it's purely a muscular issue, the muscles on one side of your eye are stronger than the other, causing them to be off balance. It's now corrected, and your eyelids aren't half as droopy, but for a while there I was fully expecting you to have x-ray vision or an uncanny ability to view those 3-d puzzles instantly. Something.

Lucy, to me you are so staggeringly beautiful. When Anna was an infant, people would literally race across a shop floor to congratulate me on the beauty of my spawn, with her perfect angelic blonde head and too-cute-to-be true Gerber tuft. They never did that with you and I can't understand it. Maybe it's because I had the 'don't come near me or I'll stab you' expression of a sleep-deprived mother, or maybe it's because they were thinking 'fuck me that babies eyes are messed up'. Whatever is was, they were wrong, because you are stunning.

I feel that too often you get short shrift as a second child; hand-me-down clothes, hand-me-down toys, hand-me-down been-there-done-that parents, but I think it's worked to your advantage. You are brimming with confidence, with a zest for life that only someone with 4-D vision can have. I told my friend S. that your latest trick is to squeal with delight at the slightest thing, baths in particular have you sending the neighbourhood dogs in to fits with your screeching. You love life. S. suggested that we should take lessons from you and find more joy in the ordinary. Have you seen Avatar? SQUEAL!!! That's the best bite of sandwich I've had today! SCREECH!

Excellent.

















Today you turn one, or Juan, as LK likes to say. A whole year of Lucydom. This evening we are having one of those ridiculous one-year-old birthday parties. The kind where you will blink your unremembering eyes at the hoopla around you and then smash your fists in to your slice of birthday cake and paste it into your hair.

























I decided months ago that a party would be ridiculous. I was going to take a picture of you under a sign reading 'I was born in a recession year'. Dress you up in a sack cloth and give you a copy of Grapes of Wrath to chew on. Then the guilt started to creep in. There would be no festive 1st year photo, no paper hats or streamers. That was four days ago and I now have nearly twenty people arriving in an hour for appetizers, champagne and birthday cake. *Yikes*. It seems the lure of a 1st birthday party is too strong. Either that or there's nothing good on TV tonight.





















Anyhoo, back to the main event - what can I say about my smallest daughter now that you're officially 1? Well, you're an all-business chick for a start. You know what you want in life and you go for it, unfazed. You love baths, running, climbing. You took your first steps on the day you turned 10 months old. You weren't bowled over by the idea, so you carried on crawling at top speed. Then a few days before you turned 11 months, you walked from the coffee table in the lounge, into the kitchen, across the entire length of the kitchen, to the foot of the stairs, where you proceeded to climb then. It was like having a mute child suddenly reciting Shakespeare. You have not looked back.
























You love books, dolls, soft toys and toilets. You don't like to be held. You don't like cuddles. You want to be down, off, there not here. Dammit. You pinch, and then laugh. You bite when you're tired. You don't sound very nice do you? Except that you're absolutely irresistible. Beautiful, passionate, headstrong and fearless.

It's going to be a wild ride.

New Year's Day 2010

We woke on New Years morning to Anna padding in to our room at 7:15am.

"When I woke up this morning there was a man in my bedroom"
"But then I saw it was just a t-shirt and a pair of pants"

You can bet we were wide awake after that one.

Then Lucy woke up. I love this stage of babyhood, soon to be over, where the giant bowling ball head is the hardest thing to balance and maneuver. When she wakes up, still floppy with sleep, she has the hardest time lifting her head. It's as much as she can do to push her bottom high in to the air while she circles and tries to gain the momentum to raise her head. Eventually she'll greet us with a toothy grin and a puff of white candy-floss hair and then she'll crash back in to the pillows with the effort.

A warm baby with a giant overnight nappy and an overly imaginative 4 year old. 2010 started well.

And to end: a sunset walk on the beach. Red sky at night, shepherd's delight. Hopefully auguring in a good year for all.