Not such small talk

I was at a social event last night, and got chatting to a couple about my time living in America. I have a stock of things I say, phrases that have become set phrases, thoughts that I can articulate without thinking about them. Five and a half significant years of my life, processed into small talk material. Nothing wrong with that - you don't want to be baring your soul to everyone you meet, and it's inevitable that your personal reflections on a place, a culture, a way of life, will become honed by repetition, into digestible fodder.

The couple I was speaking to asked me if I kept in touch with American friends, and I surprised myself. Usually my response would be:

"We made some really great friends. Mid Westerners are very open and welcoming, and we were sad to leave behind some close friendships. Yes, we're definitely keeping in touch."

Last night, I found myself saying:

"We've kept in touch so far, but it's getting a bit thin now. Inevitably. You can't keep in touch with everyone, and as you get busy in your new location and your new life, you can't carry all your friends from your previous place along with you."

I surprised myself, but yes, it's true. I'm not keeping up with friends in America as much as I was this time a year ago. It's nearly two years since we left, and life moves on. It's appropriate and good to be spending less time feeding old friendships, as new ones develop and take up more of your time and attention.

But I felt sad, nevertheless. Small talk suddenly became not all that small.

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It's been a year

We've been back a good year now. Back in the UK. The school year is starting again, and we've commented several times to each other, and to other people, how nice it is not to be newbies. The uniforms are sorted out, the relevant bits of paper read and signed, the calendar perused and any event in the next week or so noted, if I need to do something about it in advance. Otherwise, the kids will just roll up, and the next year will begin. It's a great feeling, to be established and not at sea. I've told my children to be specially nice to any new kids, and I know they will.

I'm happy to be here. We're in a good spot. We've made our house our home, found our way around a new city, made friends, had visitors to stay. My new job feels feels like another piece of the jigsaw is filled in. The picture has taken shape. I wouldn't change it, but as the year milestone is passed, I feel a little sad. It's beginning to feel like our time in America was a long time ago - another life, almost. I know other expats have said this, so I know I'm not alone. It's a strange feeling. I'm happy to be here, and when we were in America, we spent a huge amount of time, energy and emotion on trying to get here. But I left part of myself behind (quite literally, actually...).

I was shopping with 9-yo the other day, and I stopped and said "Do you remember when we used to go shopping at 'The Children's Place' together?" She nodded, and the expression on her face changed to sadness. We had a conversation about missing The Children's Place, and that made me feel better. It's part of her life too, and always will be. It took me such a long time to think of my children's sojourn in America as gain, rather than loss. I spent the first year or two thinking about all they were missing out on here. Now, for all that their current lives here are full and rich, I find myself thinking about what they are missing there.

Part of what I'm feeling is the oddness that I've made some very good new friends over the past year, but that they don't know about my having had cancer. It's not the first thing you talk about, and then as time goes by, it seems like it would be awkward to say "oh, and I don't think I've ever mentioned that I was treated for breast cancer four years ago". In a way, it doesn't matter. I am who I am in this moment, meeting people who are who they are in this moment. But in another way, it feels like it's almost become a big secret. I don't really want that. I realise that everyone, at my stage of life, will have events from their past that are significant, and that not all their friends know about. We all have things tucked away at the back of our kitchen cupboards, as it were. It's just that the cancer episode takes up a lot of cupboard space, and I don't like it being so hidden. Though I sort of do, too. I like how much it isn't part of everyday life as it used to be. There's no pleasing me at the moment! I suppose moving on involves gain and loss. You can't have one without the other.

Meanwhile, 9-yo and I are very much enjoying The Great British Bake Off. We look forward to Tuesday evening, and I love sharing that hour with her. Seems like a good trade-off for losing our trips to The Children's Place (though I did like that shop!)

House

As you'll know if you read this post, my mother has just moved out of her house, downsizing and moving near to my brother. She and my father moved into that house in 1963, so it has been the family home throughout all my life. It's a characterful old house, a former farmhouse, in a beautiful setting. I was down there for a week over half-term, with Husband and the children, and it was a good week, albeit a heavy one. I wrote some reflections.

Look. There's me. I'm being born. November. Half past six in the evening. I'm being delivered by my grandmother and the community midwife. My parents' bedroom. Two windows, one facing west, one facing south. I wonder what my first sight is, when I open my eyes. The midwife? My grandmother? My mother's smiling face? Or the brown wooden railings of the bedhead? That bedhead is still there. Maybe that bedhead, which now sports a sticky label "Bedroom 1", was the very first thing I ever saw.

Look. There's me. I'm two and a half, and my brother is being born in his turn, in my parents' bedroom. My grandmother is here again, and the community midwife, but they can't both be with my mother. My grandmother has to spend precious moments with me. I know something is going on, and I want to know what. I want to see. I want to go into my mother's room. I won't settle in my own bed. There's my grandmother, singing to me, stroking me, outwardly lulling me gently, but inwardly hard urging me to sleep.

Look. There's me. I'm sitting up in the big Silver Cross pram, opposite my brother. You can take a square section of the floor out, leaving a well for a child to put their feet when they sit upright. My feet are in the square, but so are his, and I'm kicking him. It's fun, but I'm annoyed with him too. My mother is stopping us. "Behave, or we won't go out." This is my earliest memory.

Look. There's me. I'm at school now. I'm in my blue school uniform, and I have a brown satchel, which I like, but not as much as my friend Catherine's one. Mine is a dull brown, but hers is a shiny chestnutty brown. On summer days, we walk home from school through the orchards, kicking the cut grass with our school shoes.

Look. There's me. I'm jumping around on straw bales  in the farm with my brothers, sister and cousins. We know we're not allowed to climb on the machinery, or go into the cow pens. But we're allowed on the straw bales in the barn, and there's a lovely shivery feeling of danger and strangeness in that big barn, which is so empty and echoey and huge, and it always feels as if we're naughty interlopers when any of the farmhands come by. They know us, though, and leave us alone. My mother rings a bell out of the kitchen window when it's time to go home.

Look. There's me. I'm doing my O' levels and I'm sitting at my desk, working. The garden is hot outside, and I can hear the lazy hum of a bumble bee as it drones past the window. I have the Capital Radio Daily Top 10 on the radio, which I let myself listen to every day, before turning the radio off to concentrate more on my books. Just under my window is the porch over the front door, and when I was younger, I used to think it fun to go out of my bedroom window onto the porch, and into the bathroom from there. Of course it wasn't allowed. We did it anyway.

Look. There's me. I've just moved to London, and started work. The city is big and lonely, and I feel I have no idea what I'm doing. I don't really understand my job, but I'm meant to be good at it, as a graduate trainee. I come home often for Sunday lunch, and somehow the comfort of it makes Monday morning less intimidating.

Look. There's me. It's the 'do' after my father's funeral, and we're outside in the garden in the sunshine - which is odd, come to think of it, since it's early March. I don't really want to talk to anyone, but I have to. Someone asks me whether my mother will stay on in the house. What a strange question to ask someone at a funeral.

Look. There's me. I'm sitting in the garden in the sunshine, more than 41 weeks pregnant with my first child. That last contraction made me shift in my chair. This really is it. My mother has friends round, and I don't want to be dramatic, but my sister-in-law notices and, eyes wide for effect, mouths "GO HOME!" at me.

Look. There's me. We've been back from America for long summer weeks, based at the house, and returning to it from trips elsewhere round the UK. We're all packed up and the taxi to the airport will be here soon, and I'm doing 'the sweep'. I walk through each room, eyes travelling across every flat surface, including the floor, looking for stray items. I think I'm pretty good at the sweep, opening drawers, crouching down to peer under beds, but we always leave a few items: laundry in the airing cupboard, favourite toys under pillows, books under piles of newspapers. My mother holds them as hostage till the next visit. I hate the sweep now. Gone are the days when we're only heading off a few hours away in the car, when the pride of maternal efficiency is the main emotion. Now I can't even meet my mother's eyes as she greets me in the hall with her "Got everything? Well done! You're so organised! " It feels like I'm sweeping away the whole summer, leaving it behind us as we return to our lives in America. Our other lives.

Look. There's me. Back for another summer. Sitting in the garden with Paradise. She's a blogging friend, and I've got to know her so well through emailing, pouring out our expat woes, me from America, she from Albania. Here we are, meeting in the flesh, in real life. We share a long, lazy afternoon, in the sun, our children happily playing together. We'll be heading off in different directions, me to the West, Paradise to the East, but for these few hours, the strings of our lives knot comfortably together, a fixed physical event that tethers the part of my life that is lived in cyberspace.

Look. There's me. I'm sitting on the floor with my mother, sorting a box of old toy cars. I'm taking a few, and we're dividing the rest between two bags, one for the charity shop, the other for the rubbish. I take my favourites, and then the ones I can see my mother is struggling to part with. How do you sift and prioritise memories? These Matchbox cars are the ones that I used to pick for my team, zooming them round the house with my brothers, wearing out the knees of our trousers. I know the feel of them in my hand. I know which doors open, and which wheels are missing. They all had names, but I can't remember those. My children come into the room. "Oh, the cars! Are you giving away these?" The cars are holders of two generations of playtime memories.

Look. There's me. I'm lighting the candles on my son's 16th birthday cake. We're telling him the story of the day he was born, how I sat in the sunshine with my mother and her friends. It feels like a strand of life has joined up into a full circle. I think of two friends who have sons with birthdays on this same date. One is in America whose son is 11, and the other a blogging friend whose son is 2. I reflect how my life has oozed out in various directions, from this place. Sixteen years. And here we are again. Only one more day in this house.

Look. There's me. I'm getting into bed beside Husband. I whisper "This is the last night we'll ever spend in this house", but he's asleep. I bury my face into the back of his warm neck and drape my arm over his body, and I think to myself that I'll never manage to get to sleep. But then it's morning.

Look. There's me. I'm doing the final sweep, and I'm bidding farewell to the house. I go into each room, and say goodbye, out loud. No hostages this time.

Look. There's me. We're in the car, and I'm crying, and I can't stop. I wave out of the window, because that's the ritual. "Do the beep-beeps" says one of the children from the back, and Husband beeps the horn twice. In the wing mirror, I can see my mother waving, and there's something deeply, deeply familiar about that exact way she's standing, the angle of her arm, the movement of it, the position of her head to one side... And the house, standing behind.

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Finding my new normal - Part III

One of the things that you become aware of when you become a parent, is how very much your idea of "normal" stems from your childhood.

We think we're going to fathom out how to be parents on an intellectual plane (plane as in level, not as in aeroplane, though I do quite like the idea of working things out while travelling on an intellectual aeroplane). Then we have a baby, and we are taken by surprise by how very much our gut feelings take over, and how much those gut feelings are the instincts that we inherited from our own mothers, fathers and forebears (no, not four bears, forebears). That phrase you hear yourself shouting after your disobedient toddler... where did that come from? You sounded just like your mum! Your Christmas traditions are, well, just the way Christmas IS. Other families' Christmas traditions are other families' Christmas traditions. They're not proper Christmas, somehow. Your own rules for playing childhood games are THE rules (like if you don't say "thank you" when someone hands you a card in 'Happy Families', you have to give the card back). You might agree to play with other rules, but deep down, you know they're not the real rules. (I know of someone... not a million miles away from here... who turned up at university thinking that the person who was losing at the end of each round of croquet, had an extra go, though she had at least worked out that it wasn't necessarily the youngest who got to choose their colour of ball first.)

My parents both love classical music. When I was a child, I thought that children listened to Radio 1, and adults listened to Radio 3. I thought that was the way the world was. I assumed that as you grew up, you developed a taste for classical music, just as you developed a taste for alcohol and olives, and learned to drive a car. I remember going to a friend's house, and hearing the radio, and it was voices. Not music. Voices! People talking. Imagine that. Very odd. I was puzzled. I asked my friend what her mother was listening to, and she said she didn't really know. I probed. What are the people talking about? She didn't know. I went home perplexed. Didn't all grown-ups listen to classical music on the radio? Why would a bone fide grown up be listening to voices on the radio?

I think that the world has loosened up a little. I don't think this feeling of normalcy will be quite the same phenomenon in our children's lives as it was in ours. There isn't the same sense of there being one proper way of doing things. Homes are much more varied. Children mix much more with children of other ethnicities, religions, backgrounds. But even so. It will still be there.

I want my children to question the way Husband and I do things, the beliefs we hold, the attitudes from which we operate. It's part of maturing, it's inevitable, and it's healthy. But I also know that at the ground level of their psyches, certainly for some while yet, they think that our family is the norm, the way things are, the way things rightly are. It's an awesome responsibility. But as I've decided (see my previous post) that there is no normal, then it's probably all ok.
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Please, someone, buy our house

Our house in America was on the market from April to Thanksgiving. It didn't sell.

We decided that the starting price had been too high. It was a 10 - 15% above what we'd thought the house would fetch. Our realtor thought we could aim higher. Thanks, realtor.

Of course she might have been right. Maybe we could have been lucky. It looked like the market was picking up. There were comparables.

We reduced the price, month by month, needing a quick sale. Three times. Down to below what the house is worth. People looked round, but no-one came back for a second look.

We had house-sitters living there, when we moved out. They were great. They looked after the house, kept it nice for showings. But they weren't paying rent, and we're still paying a mortgage.

We decided we should rent the house out instead. No point keeping it on the market. A year with a tenant in, and then try again. The rental agent said it should let easily. Well, she would say that, wouldn't she? The rental market is strong at the moment. A month or two, was her estimate. It's been a month or two. We've reduced the asking rent. We've said we don't mind pets. The house-sitters have moved out. The house is empty.

Then, out of the blue, came a couple who were looking to buy, and though our house wasn't technically on the market, they were showed round. They loved it but couldn't afford it. We said we were "flexible" (which sounds better than "desperate"). They put in an offer which stretched the meaning of the word "flexible" to its limit. And asked us to pay conveyancing costs. We negotiated, and accepted a midway point, which felt like a rock in a stormy sea, but better a rock than no rock.

Then we felt happy. We sighed a sigh of relief. We started to get excited about the house, the home, we could buy here. We looked at websites. Don't houses look gorgeous on websites?

And yesterday, the buyers pulled out.

It's a pathetic tale of woe, I know. I can tell myself all the answers. "In the current economic situation, what do you expect? Aren't you lucky to have a house with Husband's job! At least you're not paying rent or mortgage over here. Lots of people are worse off than you. It'll sell in time. Or rent. Just be patient."

But inwardly I'm begging "Please, someone, anyone, buy our house. Or rent it. Something. Someone."

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Leaving a home

On the way up to Edinburgh, we stayed overnight with my parents in law. It was the last time we will stay in that house. They are moving too. At the same time as we have headed east from America to Scotland, they are heading east from the Pennines to the Moors. A smaller journey geographically, but who can measure these things emotionally? They are leaving the house they moved to when Husband was 13, where they have lived for nearly 40 years.

It's never been my home, but as we drove away for the last time, going through the usual driving away ritual with a double beep on the horn and arms waving from the windows, I felt sad. That house holds 17 years of memories for me:

The first time I met my future parents in law, and we had a Chinese takeaway. It must have been an impromptu visit, I think, though I can't remember the details. If it had been arranged in advance, I'm sure they'd have cooked us dinner. Fish pie, probably.

The first week-end I stayed there, and the feedback via Husband from his mother: "She's a lovely girl, isn't she?"

Telling them we were going to get married, and hugs all round, though it had been difficult to find the right moment. We were bursting with the news, and every time we were about to start the announcement, Granny (though not Granny at the time) would get up to potter into the kitchen to see to the meal.

Those early visits with a baby and a boot full of baby equipment, nervously attending to his needs out of the comfort of our own environment. Later visits with three children, when dealing with just one baby would have seemed like a walk in the park. The cot, the highchair, the box of toys, bought for visiting grandchildren, to relieve our car boot of its burden, and to stand sentinel between our visits.

Being there for Grandad's 60th birthday, the day on which Princess Diana died.

The hatch between the kitchen and the dining room, which has entertained the children far more than any toy or game.

The trips to "the rec", the park, the canal to feed the ducks.

The traditional game of running round the house as many times as possible. The record is 150, held by 11-yo, (though we rely on self-counting, so I can't vouch for the accuracy of that figure).

The joke about how it always rains (and it usually does). There was one legendary trip when we drove up from the south in blazing sunshine, and when we were 10 minutes away from arriving, the sky clouded over and the drizzle started, as if to prove a point, or join in the joke.

Some of the memories have become stories for our children. "Granny kept saying "I must just see to the vegetables" and leaving the room, so you couldn't even tell them. Was that how it was?"

Then I think of the phone calls that have been received there. "A boy! Wonderful! How's Iota doing?" "Another boy! Is all well?" "A girl! Oh... a girl! How is everyone?" "You got the job... America... When will you leave..?" "Cancer? They're sure? What happens now?" So many moments that, like a child's dot-to-dot puzzle, join together to make a picture.

A house. It's so much more than a house. I'm homesick, and it wasn't even ever my home.
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Home

OK, so I'm back. Not home, but back. Which means that I am on the east side of the Atlantic.

I left the place which has been home for five and a half years, and now I am at the place which was home throughout my whole childhood. And when our belongings arrive in their container, so long as it doesn't fall off the side of the ship and plummet into the depths of the North Atlantic, we will take them to the house which is waiting to become our new home.

So where does that leave me for the moment? I've always found those slogans that people have on display in their houses a little trite. You know the kind of thing I mean. "Home is where the heart is", or "East, West, Home is Best". But I shouldn't be so critical. They are brave attempts to capture an elusive concept. "Home" is what?

A place? A house, a town, a country, or a continent?

People? A family, friends, a community?

A space? Your own heart, or perhaps even a blog?

Or a feeling? Yes, I believe "home" can be a feeling. And that's why I say I am back, but not home. Yet.

Housework crisis: female vs male approach

It's a pain in the butt, keeping your house tidy and then whizzing round cleaning manically whenever a potential buyer wants to look round (can't they just browse and buy online like we do for everything else these days?) At least since Husband's term has ended, he's around and helps out. Women and men have a different approach to housework, don't they? Though there are some underlying similarities.

My stream of consciousness

Oh bother, this bottle of bathroom cleaner has run out. Never mind, there'll be quite a few others around the house in various cupboards. Husband always stocks up when he goes shopping… On the other hand, this could be a reason to go to Dillon’s and finish the cleaning later. There might be something on special offer and I could save some money. So it totally makes sense. Hm…Yes... That’s a good idea. I need a break anyway. I wonder if Anne-Marie would be free for a coffee in the Starbuck’s inside Dillon’s. That’s sensible - killing two birds with one stone. In fact, it would be silly to go to Dillon’s without seeing if she’s free. I’ll just call her… Dang it, she's not there. Left a message on her voice mail, so now I really have to go, because she might turn up and if I'm not there, that would be bad.

That’ll be one of the fun things about moving to Scotland. There’ll be some great coffee shops to discover in Edinburgh. I bet they’re really nice. There’s that one where J K Rowling wrote Harry Potter. Ooh, fun… All I need is a friend, or a book. Bookshops! Bet there are some nice bookshops in Edinburgh too. I wonder what people are reading these days in Scotland. Maggie O'Farrell - I love her. Has she written anything new recently I wonder? Or Alexander McCall Smith. Yes! Fabulous! What I really need is a bookshop with a coffee place inside it. Or just next door. Mmm… lots to explore.

Twenty minutes… I suppose I could just whip round with the vacuum, or do the kitchen. Not really worth it though. Can’t do much in twenty minutes. I know… I’ll just check my emails. That’s a really efficient use of time. Yay, me, for being so efficient. And I could just have a quick look at Amazon to see if there's a new Maggie O'Farrell. Or read one quick blog post. Wonder who's posted today.

Husband’s stream of consciousness

Oh bother, this bottle of bathroom cleaner has run out. I don’t think we have any more in the house anywhere. Funny that, because I always stock up on stuff like that when I go shopping. I suppose I could look, but actually, I think I’d better go to Home Depot instead. Yes. In fact, there are a few things I need from Home Depot, and I didn’t get them when I was there yesterday. Right. Home Depot it is. They have the best selection of cleaning fluids anyway. Much better than boring old Dillon’s.

Ooh, cleaning fluids! I wonder if any will be on special offer. I could really stock up. Oh, except we’re moving in 5 weeks’ time… But I’m sure we’ll use lots before then. Yes, I’ll stock up. Cleaning fluids… I wonder if they’re anywhere near the wood varnishes… or perhaps the high-powered solvents… paint-strippers… ant-killers… lawn fertilizers… mmm… so much to look at…

Home Depot… I’d better check out the tools while I’m there… Makes sense. Tools! Gadgets! Aisles full of them… Aaaah…

Home Depot… I wonder if HomeBase still exists in Britain. I can’t really imagine life in Britain without it. And B&Q! Oh yes! B&Q! Ooh, fun… Those super-size trolleys… I think I might still have my reward card in an old wallet somewhere. I wonder if my points are still valid. There are probably some really essential new pieces of DIY equipment in B&Q these days. I could have a look online. See what’s there. And if I see anything that would be really useful, I could check out if Home Depot has the equivalent. Cheaper to buy it here. Like that axe I got recently. Don’t know why Iota found that funny. Really useful thing to have. Our house has an open fire, and is right next to some woods. I’ll be using an axe. Definitely made sense. Wonder what else we need. Yes… Before I go, I’ll just have a look at the B&Q website and get an idea of prices.

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A staging post

Staging my house. Not dressing it. 'Staging' is the term I should have used, and staging is what I've been doing for the past couple of hours.

Our realtor came round last week, and pointed out where things could be improved. Some we knew about already, some she tactfully suggested. This morning, a couple of friends helped me out. They brought boxes of china and other display items, and they brought fun and a caring desire to help. The china is useful. We put it out on the silly built-in shelving in the sitting room that I've never liked. The fun and the caring desire to help was more than useful.

That's the essence of selling a house, isn't it? It's your home. But that's not what a buyer wants, and therefore that's not what you want to show them. If you came and looked round my house now, in the nicely-themed nook off the kitchen, you'd see a dining table, with a brown table cloth and a fruit bowl on top of it, a scene of a Tuscan landscape on the wall, all muted yellows and oranges, and a corner unit with plants and trailing ivy. I hope you'd think "mmm, what a lovely, welcoming, warm, mellow dining space".

But if you'd come and looked round my home last week, you'd have seen a not-at-all-themed space that I don't think you'd ever have described as a 'nook'. The wall was covered with pictures painted or drawn by my children over the past five years, stuck up with blu-tack. We called it 'the art wall'. Whenever a picture came home from school, if we decided we liked it more than any of the existing ones, an old one was taken down and the new one went up in its space. Some old favourites had been up for years, dusty but undeposed. You'd have seen a bare table, all scraggy with paint, glitter and nail polish - the table that we decided we'd let the kids use for whatever they wanted when they were little, and then we'd sand down and revarnish at some unspecified future time. When do you decide that your children are no longer little? We haven't quite got there yet. 8-yo still paints and glues and snips and jabs at that table, and I still prefer not to have to choose between the table's appearance and the child's creative largesse.

Where the classy corner unit now stands (well, not all that classy actually), you'd have seen a couple of cardboard boxes, labelled '8-yo's second grade work', and '11-yo's fifth grade work'. What else is a mum to do with the generous contents of the Friday folders, week by week?

You'd have seen a big pile of stuff. Stuff? Yes, stuff. I can't find a better word. Next to the stuff, you'd have seen 'the craft chest of drawers' - a truly horrible plastic item, bought from Walmart when we first arrived in the US, desperate for a place to keep under control all the paperwork that was coming at us thick and fast, and now the repository of crayons, pencils, paintbrushes, paints, stamps, inkpads, rubber bands, blu-tack, scotch tape, bows cut off gift bags that might come in useful, scraps of fabric that also might come in useful... you know the kind of thing. I'm missing that horrible, grubby, shabby plastic chest of drawers already.

This is where having friends is so good.

"Oh!" they said. "Your art wall!" they said. "I loved that wall... but yes, I guess you did have to take it down. Wow. I love your Italian theme. That picture is gorgeous. Where did you get that border from? Really? You've always had that border up in your kitchen? How did I never notice the border? It was up when you moved in? And that matching curtain over the top of the window? Really? I guess I was always so busy admiring the art wall that I never noticed. It's great, though... the Italian look... picking up that border. You've done wonders."

House to home was a slow process, and lonely in the early days. Home to house is a quick transformation. It feels almost surgical, removing the bits that don't fit, that aren't needed, that will get in the way, and stitching up with borrowed china and silk flower arrangements. But of course you fool yourself if you think it really is surgical. A home can't be dissected like that. That's why you need surgeons who are friends. They operate with efficiency (they know you're busy) but also with laughter. They choose their words carefully ("A potential buyer might prefer to see an open space here - though I absolutely love the way you have it..."). And most important of all, they know about the art wall.

Christmas 2011, the Christmas of the Towels

Christmas Eve, and Mr Claus and I were in the basement wrapping the final presents, and watching old episodes of Men Behaving Badly (yay, Netflix). I asked Husband to pass me a box of tissue, from the other side of the room, and as he pottered over in his socked feet, he paused and asked "why is the carpet wet here?". Yay for the box of tissues, which led us to discover that we have a leak in something (since it hasn't rained for a few days), and that water has been seeping into a corner of the basement, for probably several days (or weeks - who knows). This accounts for the slightly odd smell, which Husband had mentioned the other day, and I'd ignored. Our basement often smells slightly odd. It's usually to do with the dirty socks strewn around.

So the carpet is peeled back, the underlay discarded, and a pretty semi-circle of towels is keeping the water at bay. Towels which every few hours need to be wrung out, bunged in the washing machine and then the dryer (yay, driers.)

We had a lovely Christmas Day. We really did. Then last night, three of the five of us (Husband, me, 7-yo) went down with a bug. Or got up with a bug, I should say. Was it the turkey? Anyway, in these situations, I become a bit obsessive about washing everything: bedding, towels, pyjamas. I also put down a lot of spare towels, a habit which dates back to the days when our children weren't old enough to make it to the bucket, or good enough at aiming even if the bucket was right next to the bed. Thus it was that Husband, seeing me with another load on my way to the washing machine (yay, washing machines) wryly observed "This has been the Christmas of the Towels".

Right. Off to check that our house insurance is up to date.

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What can really only be described as rambling

OK, so here I am on the other side. Of the Atlantic. This isn’t a mystic voice from beyond the grave or anything. But you probably knew that. Oooh, I was about to write “But you probably knew that already”, which just goes to show. Year by year, day by day, sentence by sentence, I am being tweaked and shaped, and I become less and less the two people I flit between, UK and US, and more and more the one hybrid lump of somewhat amorphous personhood that… oooh, “somewhat”. Did you spot that?

For thus it is. The longer we live here in the Midwest, the more I become me, in this life that is my life. I’m no longer constantly surprised that it is my life. I don’t spend so much mental energy on comparisons and analysis. I’ve got used to the loss of many of the things I’ve had to let go of (not all…), and I’ve got used to carrying round the new things I’ve acquired. It’s just me, here or there. I’m feeling what the French would call “dans ma peau”, meaning literally “in my skin”. Very good expression, don’t you think? It’s rather taken me by surprise, because these transitions from one location to the other, from one culture to the other, are usually rather difficult. I know, too, that homesickness is a spooky lurking beast, and can pop out unexpectedly when you round a corner, so don’t be surprised if my next post is all about how much I miss England and how miserable I am.

For the moment, however, and we all know that the moment is the best place to live, life is good and seems full of potential. Today the kids are all back at school. I am debating whether to go back to the toy shop, which is fun, but has - as I predicted - rather lost its novelty, and is appallingly badly paid. I am capable of so much more, and as Husband’s teaching schedule this year means that he would be free to do school pick-ups, I have the freedom to explore. So I am job-hunting. I applied for a job online, but logged out half way through the process. I hadn’t got round to logging back in and finishing the form, when, blow me down, quick as a wink, the next morning I woke to find they’d sent me an email saying thanks but no thanks. This serves to confirm my worst anxieties about Corporate America. Way too flash fast for plodding-along me. But I know you’re all going to tell me not to be discouraged, and yes, you’re right. I will persevere.

The other idea that’s bumbling around in my head is to do an MA. My thought process goes like this. I can do an MA for free at Husband’s university. Ooh, good deal. What do they offer that I could do and that would be interesting and useful? (You have to remember it’s a small private university with a very small graduate programme, so the answer is not going to take long.) An MBA? Well, that would certainly look good on my cv, but it looks like you can’t really do it unless you’re in a job that will let you do on-the-job projects and assessments. And an MBA? Me? Really? Moving on… Counselling and Family Therapy. No. Not for me. At least not from that side of the table. Christian Ministry? An MA in Christian Ministry? Hm… Well, I don’t want to be a Christian minister… But it does look interesting. Some of it, anyway. And what’s this bit here? “You don’t have to be preparing for ordination or Christian leadership to take this course. Many of our students sign up for their own personal development.” Ooh, sounds like me. I’ve already spoken to Husband’s colleague who runs the programme, and he said he’d be happy to have me. Wa-hey! The only snaffoo (just learnt that word, isn’t it great?) with the idea is that I have discovered that although it’s billed as a freebie for families of employees of the university, it’s a taxable benefit and therefore does have a financial implication. Given the huge fees that people pay for these kinds of courses, even just paying the tax on it is significant. Plus there's the ginormous loss of earnings that I could potentially enjoy in my new, reinvented, Iota as Corporate Princess, “who needs to fill out a whole application form, can’t you see how impressive I am from the first half?” self.
So… job or MA, job or MA, or shall I just go back to the toyshop and potter along? Options, options.

Meanwhile, back at the first day of school for my kids, I have to just tell you that I am super-impressive in the whole area of school supplies these days. Gone are the laborious hours wandering round Target, Wal-mart, Hobby Lobby, Office Max and wherever else the last person mentioned, lists clutched in sweaty hands, wondering why on earth it has to be a pink eraser, not an eraser of the colour of my choice. I am now Supplies Queen. I know that all erasers are pink (except those white polymer ones), so that pink erasers are easy to find! I know what a 1½” 3-ring binder with an accordion folder inside is. Yes, I do! I know what a folder with brads is. Ha! I know that… sshhhh… it doesn’t always matter if what you get isn’t exactly what is specified on the list. Is it really going to matter if your child has a 2” notecard ring instead of a 1” one? No! I am so obviously Supplies Queen that I’m surprised Target hasn’t made me a crown using their construction paper (one pkg, any colour), dry erase markers (pack of 4, thick, different colours), 3” x 5” plain white index cards, 7” pointed Fiskars scissors, and Elmers glue.

But pride comes before a fall, so I must temper my self-adulation, and tell you that having a child start High School puts you right back at the bottom of the pile. You know how it felt when your child started Kindergarten or Reception, and everyone else seemed to know what was going on except you? Well, High School brings that feeling back with what might be called a vengeance.

And now, since this is 1,000 words and already too long, I’m going.

Three white things

First white thing

I made a startling and potentially life-changing discovery while in Scotland, and being a generous soul, I thought I'd share it with you. Those square white plates that they have in restaurants and in catalogues... get yourself some.

We were staying in a friend's house, and the first night, I rustled up a delicious little something for the children: fish fingers, pasta and broccoli. (Oh come on, I was on holiday, I wasn't going to be slaving over a hot stove every night.) But here's the amazing thing. If you serve fish fingers, pasta and broccoli on square white plates, it looks like some gourmet speciality. It really does.

If I was a half-decent blogger, I'd have comparison photos for you. Fish fingers on my usual circular pattern-round-the-edge plate, followed by fish fingers on clean-lines square white plate. Then you could see for yourselves. Sorry. You'll just have to shut your eyes and imagine them... See...? The first looks suspiciously like fish fingers, pasta and broccoli. The second, ah yes, the second has become North Atlantic cod coated in our own special-recipe golden breadcrumbs, oven-baked to soft perfection, accompanied by delicious wholemeal pasta and locally sourced garden-fresh broccoli tips, served with a smooth coulis of 'ketchup de tomates organiques'.

They had rectangular white plates too, which were even more sophisticated. I mean, rectangular, for heaven's sake.

Second white thing

It is very hot here. As we made our descent, the pilot informed us that the temperature on the ground was 108 degrees (that's 42 for you celsius types). It was windy too, and walking out of the plane onto the stairs felt like walking into a giant hairdryer.

Still, we are quite jammy really. It's been over 100, unrelentingly, for two or three weeks, and now the forecast says it's going to drop down to the low 90s - maybe even a cool 89 tomorrow. So we timed our absence and homecoming pretty well.

I am mentally better adjusted to living in this kind of temperature than I used to be. I used to find it frustrating, because, being English, I'm so hard-wired to looking at sunshine and thinking "ooh, lovely". This just led to frequent disappointment. I've had to relearn my reflexes. It's as if Pavlov took his salivating dogs and said "and now, just to complicate things, I'm going to ring the bell, and then serve you food that tastes disgusting and makes you sick... let's see if we can recondition you...". It's one of those complicated ex-pat things. You have to reconfigure some of your good/bad assumptions. I remember being confused when our realtor was showing us round a house in January, and said "this yard has trees, so it'll be nice and shady". It required a mental u-turn from the usual expectation of "south-facing, sheltered, sunny".

So yes, I'm pretty well adjusted these days. I don't look out of the window and think "ooh, lovely". A lot of the windows have the blinds down anyway. I look at Weatherbug on the computer, and think "ooh, hot". I will confess, though, to a residual English excitement at the thought of how quickly the washing will dry (though actually, it's not as speedy as you might think, because of the humidity). I think it will be some years before I lose that.

Third white thing

I've got my green card. It was waiting for us in the mail on our return. It's white. Forgive me for being simplistic, but I was expecting it to be green. This means that I can get a job, and get paid. It's actually rather intimidating (pathetic of me, I know).

So that'll be me, flipping burgers then.

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More life stuff

I forgot to tell you the worst bit.

The day after the visit, back home, in the grim grey light of morning when it had become clear that the negotiating process was going to end badly but whilst we were still mired in it, my friend who had been looking after our hamster phoned to say he wasn't looking very well. Not very well at all.

He had been healthy at 4.00am that morning, when she had been unable to sleep and had gone into the kitchen and seen him running on his wheel. Literally on his wheel, ie on the top of it, which is something of a hamster first, according to the vet we later spoke to. But by 8.00am, something had happened, and he wasn't responding to stimuli. When I got there, he was looking dead, but a few twitches indicated life, so I lifted him out of his cage, and held him on my lap, thinking perhaps the warmth of my hands would revive him. For a few minutes, it seemed I was onto something, as his breathing became regular again, and his eyes opened. On the advice of the vet who my friend phoned, we dripped a sole drop of honey into his mouth, and kept him warm. For about half an hour, I willed life and health into him, but alas, the glimmer of hope was forlorn. Whatever was ailing him was too much for his little hamstery form, and he died in my hands.

At 5-yo's valentine party, I was admiring the art work on the classroom wall. The children had had their pictures taken with puckered up lips, and had coloured in their lips in red or pink. They had then written a sentence saying "My valentine kiss is for..." (which actually I didn't think was terribly appropriate, but that's another story). Most of them had written "Mom" or "Dad" or the name of one of their classmates. 5-yo had written "My valentine kiss is for mi ded hamster".

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Thanksgiving: yes, I'm still on about it

OK. Time to reveal what is behind all this ‘shadow cast over the sunshine that was Thanksgiving’ blurb.

We don't have a return ticket. It must be nice to be sent abroad by a company, for a fixed period of time, 2 or 3 years say, safe in the knowledge that they'll bring you home again to the corporate fold. But we're free-lancers. We sold our house and bought one here. We don't have jobs to go back to. We don't have an obvious community to go back to. In sum, we don't have a life to go back to. Just lots of loose strands. Lovely, important, crucial, life-enhancing loose strands, but all the same, they're not a firm enough rope to pull us back. Not a job and an income, is what it boils down to.

What do you do, as free-lancers, if you've been looking hard for a year for opportunities to return to the UK, have found none, and then out of the blue, get an offer, which is great in pretty much every detail, except for the location. Wrong side of the Atlantic. It'll involve moving job, city, state, home, schools, leaving friends, undoing all that hard work we've put into settling here, and still not get us back to Britain. It would be a good stepping stone (both career-wise, and geographically), but dang it, I didn’t ask Santa for a stepping stone.

I’m sure there were moments, as a child, when I screwed up my eyes and wailed “I want to go home now. Can’t we just go home?”. Forty years on, and deep down that’s what I’m doing today. I could write out the pros and cons of this new opportunity. The pros would be a great long list, and the cons would be “Iota wants to go home*, and can’t face moving unless it’s to achieve that”. Does that count for anything?

And that is why, dear Bloggy Friends, writing about the Expat’s Paradox is so scary at the moment. Moving within the US now, with the kids at the ages they are (oldest will be 13 by next summer, which is when the move would happen), feels like we are making the decision to stay for the duration. I know it’s not, or it doesn’t have to be, but it feels like it is. And I really don’t want to. I really don’t. Had you spotted that already? I really don’t.

Which is why I felt almost resentful, as well as happy and grateful, when we had such a nice Thanksgiving. As I said to a friend here, I was excited to move to America, and embraced it as an adventure. But I didn't really mean it.


* and remember, I haven't let myself use that word to refer to Britain for three years now, but have religiously attached it to my current abode. But this morning I'm allowing myself to peel it off and reposition it.

Picture this

Everyone is playing this picture tag game, and Nappy Valley Girl has tagged me. The rules are:

Go to the 4th folder in your computer where you store your pictures
Pick the 4th picture in that folder
Explain the picture
Tag 4 people to do the same.

This is very exciting, since there is something I've been meaning to write about and show you all for ages and ages, and haven't got round to it, and now I have to. This involved a small amount of cheating, but very minor stuff. You will see, when I explain the first 3 attempts.

1) The 4th folder wasn't a folder at all, but an icon which was a short-cut to opening Mozilla Firefox. So I just ended up on the BBC World News home page. I deleted the icon. What was it doing there anyway?

2) The new 4th folder contained lots of different pictures of a soccer ball, downloaded from the internet. The folder title was "11-yo's soccer logos". I didn't think that was very interesting for you all, so gave myself permission to pass on.

3) The next folder was titled "11-yo's aeroplane pictures". There were only 3 pictures in it, so I could pass on without even being guilty of cheating.

So on the 4th attempt at finding the 4th picture in the 4th folder, I found this.



Here is the story behind it. When we moved into our new home, in April 2006, having moved half a world, camped out with the sister of one of Husband's colleagues for 2 weeks, and rented a small duplex for 4 months, we wanted to do something special in the children's bedroom. It seemed important. Our two youngest were sharing the largest room.

Husband had bought a painting done by one of his students (he's a Philosophy teacher, but as you probably know, a US degree covers a whole range of subjects, so this girl was an art major taking one of his philosophy classes). I really loved it. It showed a boat on a lake, and was dreamy and impressionist. "Do you think she does murals?" I asked Husband, and that's how it all started.

This was Mylissa's first mural. We weren't very easy clients, or perhaps we were ideal clients, in that we didn't really have a clear idea of what we wanted. I just asked for it to be dreamy and impressionist, and of the sea. Oh how I missed the sea, which we could view from our bedroom window in the house we'd left in Scotland. We painted the room blue, she brought lots of pictures from books and websites, we told her which ones we liked and which we didn't, and she made a start.

It was a mutually very happy arrangement. Mylissa took her time (um, nearly 4 months actually - in sporadic evenings and week-end afternoons) during which period the room pretty much became her studio, and the 2 children slept on our bedroom floor. She didn't charge us nearly enough, and wouldn't. She had most of the vision, but we would chip in our ideas: how about a bird here, or a few fish there? We had a lot of fun doing it, and I loved seeing an artist at work. What a mysterious world is the world of the painter.

We couldn't have been more pleased with the result. The mural is on 3 walls. There's a tropical island, with a sunset and dolphins. There's a boy's side of the room, with a shipwreck (in the photo above), and a sailing boat in the distance. There's a girl's side, with mermaids lazily investigating a treasure chest, and a hazy castle in the clouds. Deep down, I know the mural is really for me, not for the children, although they do love it too.

Mylissa did a couple of murals after ours, but then went off to Hollywood to do clever things with Blu-Ray. Her creativity was, in a way, a key to unlocking some element of mine, which is something else I need to tell you about. Another time. Meanwhile, it's very hard to do the mural justice, but I thought you'd like to see a few more photos of it.











Here's a close-up of that wreck. I was going to say "you can't really see the detail", but you can if you click on it. It's worth a look.


Mylissa added a little Pikachu just by the door of the room (he's a Pokemon for those of you who don't know). We discussed putting him on the sailing boat or the island, or letting him hang out with the mermaids, but for the sake of artisitic integrity, she found him a spot out of the picture.


I am tagging Elsie Button, Potty Mummy, Expatmum, and Antique Mommy. And Pig in the Kitchen which makes 5. It's the new 4. Didn't you know? (But Pig, you're not allowed a food photo; it's got to be something else.)

Home again, home again, jiggety jig

We are back. We had a golden summer. Cousins played happily with cousins. I had my fix of old friends. We went to lovely beaches, the North York Moors, enjoyed old haunts, discovered new ones. Walked down streets – such a different thing from going to the mall. Walked along leafy country lanes that I have known since I was pushed along them in a big Silver Cross pram, kicking my younger brother for leg space. Went to the christening of my blogson. Husband and 11-yo had a day at Lord’s. Realised we’d been away too long when I said “there’s the pub”, and 4-yo piped up from the back of the car “what’s a pub?”

And blogging. Hm. Didn’t do much of that. Didn’t have internet access, you see. Had to go to the public library. Cramps one’s style a bit. Hadn’t planned to go silent for three months, but it sort of happened. Sorry.

It was good to go home. I had been worried that it would be unsettling for us all, make us unsure of where we fit in these days. But the opposite happened. It helped. The children made sense of which cousin belonged to which aunt and uncle, and if we needed evidence that blood is thicker than water, it was there to be found in the way they got on so easily. Links to places and people were still strong, but didn’t seem to evoke the same sense of loss. We fitted in here, there and everywhere more easily that I could have imagined. The familiarity was comforting. Most of all, we just didn’t think about it too much. I had been worried that the trip would make us homesick, but no. At least not for now. It made Britain seem more reachable, just a flight away, the Atlantic really just a big pond.

This, too. The balance has tipped. We knew deep down all along that this our American chapter would be not wrong, just different, and not forever, but we decided that we would live from the outset as if it were, putting down deliberate roots, holding loosely to home ties, living our thought lives as well as our physical lives here in the Midwest. I never fooled myself, but I gave it my best shot, carefully and with effort. Our summer changed that. We’ve started thinking and talking about the return strategy. Too much, probably. We did some forward planning, a bit vague at this point, but at least the direction is decided. We’ve done the uphill climb, we’re now on the plateau. I know the downhill may be some way off, but I’ve allowed myself to acknowledge it exists. That is a good feeling.

A golden summer with silver linings.

Different things

Over the past few days, I have been collecting a list of things that will be different about life when we’re in Britain. They are pretty random, so I will just spew them out, although I have made at least a little attempt at organizing them. They are in three categories. Three categories – come on, that’s pretty good. I mean, it’s not the kind of intelligent analysis that would get me to be where someone like Matt Frei is, but three categories is three categories. Don’t knock it.

Things that will be different

• There will be reassuring white lines at road junctions, so that I will know where I am meant to stop the car
• Stop lights will not swing about on their wires in the wind in that alarming way
• The meat aisle in the supermarket will be mostly chicken with a small section of beef, rather than mostly beef with a small section of chicken
• Children won’t call each other “dude” (or perhaps they will; we’ve been away 18 months and this could be a new fashion for all I know)
• Everything will seem very small, especially cars and houses. A friend of mine laughed when I told her we have an air hockey table in our basement playroom: “you have a playroom large enough for an air hockey table?”. I didn’t tell her we could fit 3 or 4 in that room, and that we have a choice of other rooms where it could go. And that our house is not abnormally large for a family of five
• Children in a park won’t ask their parents for an underdog (which is surprising, given we’re meant to be a nation that always likes the underdog)
• A grill will be something you put meat under, not on top of

Things I will miss

• A big fridge
• The lack of traffic
• Not having to spend time planning the hunt for a parking space
• Thunderstorms
• Kraft Macaroni and Cheese in a box (which, annoyingly and humiliatingly, is much, much more delicious than homemade)
• Mixer taps that actually mix the hot and cold water
• Seeing exotic food in my local supermarket (cactus leaves, buffalo meat) – or will Cadbury’s chocolate fingers and Wall’s chipolatas seem exotic now?
• Knowing it will be warm enough every day to wear flip flops (I find the relentless heat hard to cope with, but I do like flip flops)
• People asking me where I’m from and saying they love my accent

Things I definitely will not miss

• Obscenely large portions in restaurants
• Drinks served 75% ice 25% liquid (am I the only one who likes a drink to be something you can drink? am I the only one with teeth sensitive to cold?)
• When I order milk from a children’s menu, the waiter asking “white or chocolate?”
(Of course these first three are entirely hypothetical, since we won’t be eating out at all. Given the cost of living in the UK, we will be existing on bread and water – oh, but at least it’ll be delicious bread, not the compacted cotton wool that is marketed as bread over here.)
• Commercials on tv – their number, frequency, length, quality and medical content (I think that covers the gist of it)
• The word “ornery”, because I just can’t quite get the nuance of what it means – one of those words which has a dictionary definition, but whose usage depends on undefinable knowledge
• The word “flakey”, for the same reason (and is it “flakey” or “flaky” – I can’t even spell it)
• Chiggers
• Four-way stops (don’t get me started)
• Children saying “can I get…” instead of “please may I have…”
• People asking me where I’m from and saying they love my accent (and yes, that’s meant to be in both lists - I’m a bit complicated on this one. Sometimes it’s nice to be different and have an immediate talking point, sometimes it would be nice to blend in a little more.)

A bird, a beer and a birthday

There are three moments which have pulled at my home-heartstrings in the past few days. The first was when a seagull, a single bird, flew over our neighborhood pool. It must have been very lost. We are 650 miles from the nearest sea if you head south, over 1,300 if you head east (as my thoughts do).

The second happened when I was browsing the blogosphere. I came across a reference to the Poltimore Arms. This is a small pub in a remote location on Exmoor. It is a very pleasant spot. I haven't been there for at least 10 years, so I couldn't exactly say it was a part of my everyday pre-Midwest life, (unlike seagulls, which were). In fact, I never thought about it. But I am thinking about it now, and it is a long, long way away.

The third moment came when I was standing in Dillons (the Waitrose of supermarkets here, and very nice) choosing a birthday card for my younger brother's 40th birthday. There is something wrong about sending a 40th birthday card half a world away to your younger brother. Not wrong, just different? No. I'm sorry. This one is wrong, just wrong.