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.)
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Blog anniversary
Most bloggers do some kind of special post on their blogiversary. Mine will be 21st May, but sadly I won’t be able to post, since I’ll be in England and internet accessless (unless I am hunched over the computer in the local public library, which I guess is not beyond the bounds of possibility). It won’t be a tidy 100 posts (that would be clever), but I’m getting on that way – this is my 83rd.
It seems to be the thing to refer back to one’s first post, and here is mine. Things haven’t changed much. I have a house to organize and clean before we leave for Britain, since someone is kindly house-sitting and that does raise the bar a little in terms of cleanliness. I have long given up any thought of a perfect house; a half-way adequate one will do, but that is still some way off. I have suitcases to pack. I have laundry to do. I have excited children wanting my attention. I have the nagging realization that there is schoolwork to be finished. I have a sinus infection which makes me feel as if my head is full of putty, and as if the world is heavier and slower than usual. I have got to decant essential liquids into 3oz bottles for the flight. I have got to find a store that sells 3oz leak-proof bottles (which isn't as easy as you'd think). I have 4 days to go till we fly, and I am sitting here typing a blog post. As I said, things haven’t changed much.
It seems to be the thing to refer back to one’s first post, and here is mine. Things haven’t changed much. I have a house to organize and clean before we leave for Britain, since someone is kindly house-sitting and that does raise the bar a little in terms of cleanliness. I have long given up any thought of a perfect house; a half-way adequate one will do, but that is still some way off. I have suitcases to pack. I have laundry to do. I have excited children wanting my attention. I have the nagging realization that there is schoolwork to be finished. I have a sinus infection which makes me feel as if my head is full of putty, and as if the world is heavier and slower than usual. I have got to decant essential liquids into 3oz bottles for the flight. I have got to find a store that sells 3oz leak-proof bottles (which isn't as easy as you'd think). I have 4 days to go till we fly, and I am sitting here typing a blog post. As I said, things haven’t changed much.
Friday, May 9, 2008
An accent post
Now, here’s a “Not wrong, just different” classic. I think you may have to dig deep on this one. We all like to think we’re liberal-minded, open to cultural variation, happy to embrace difference. Have you ever thought about accents, though?
When we moved to Scotland from the south of England, people were intrigued to know if our children were picking up a Scottish accent. “Ooh, how lovely!” they would say. Then we moved to America, and when they see us, people will no doubt be intrigued to find out if our children have picked up an American accent. “Ooh, how lovely!” they will say. Or not. Now I’m not a gambling woman (not with money, anyway), but I would lay a large sum on a bet that we will not get that reaction once. In fact, before we came, a few people told us stories of their friend/sister/cousin who moved to America/Australia/Canada and their kids lost the accent when they came back home within weeks/months/days. It seems a reasonable thing to assume that a fellow Brit will share a dislike of an American accent, and also that it is ok, even in these politically correct days, to say so. Perhaps I could have a bit of fun, and pretend to my friends that I am charmed by my kids’ new accents. “Such cute intonation – we’re so thrilled for them” I could say, and watch friends’ faces as they struggle to work out if I’m being serious.
I don’t think there is any way to justify our attitudes to accents. I mean, it’s not as if an accent could be evolutionarily superior, is it? The soft lilting tones that we so admire in a Scot didn’t serve his cavemen ancestors any more useful purpose than the nasal elongated vowels of his American counterpart. I’m trying to think how one could argue that case. The caveman Scot was naturally better at imitating the subtle sounds of wild birds, and was thus better equipped to hunt them down and feed his family on nutritious poultry. The caveman American was better at warning his family of impending danger, because his loud holler carried farther. Hm. Not very convincing either way, is it? I think we just have to accept that when it comes to accents, we are all very insular and deeply prejudiced.
Or course it works in our favour here. We all know that the Americans just love the English or Scottish accent. At one point in my life, when it was a vague possibility (only a vague one) that I might move to New York, my friend there was very keen on the idea, on the basis that if I shared an apartment with her, and used my voice on her answerphone, her social life would take a dramatic turn for the better. It’s jolly spiffingly splendid to be on the receiving end of some positive discrimination, for something that comes for free. It’s not as if I have to work at my accent, or practise it, or pay for it. It’ll have to do me instead of cosmetic surgery for the duration of our time here. It’s not quite right, though, you have to agree. (Not quite right, but not so wrong that I didn’t shamelessly use my accent to avoid a ticket when a policeman on a motorbike pulled me over for having out of date tags – “oh miy goodness mee, offissa, Eye’m terriblee terriblee sorreee” - but that’s another story).
I must have become more used to the accent here than I realize. I went to see a high school production of Oliver recently, and after a few minutes, I began to wonder why the actors were all putting on odd, slow, stilted voices. Then the penny dropped (duuh). They were putting on English accents, and putting them on very well in fact. It must have been exhausting to have to sound so pretentious all the time. Is that what I sound like to them? And if so, why do they find it so attractive? But it will take a less self-interested woman than me to stand up at this point in time and say “Not attractive, just different”.
When we moved to Scotland from the south of England, people were intrigued to know if our children were picking up a Scottish accent. “Ooh, how lovely!” they would say. Then we moved to America, and when they see us, people will no doubt be intrigued to find out if our children have picked up an American accent. “Ooh, how lovely!” they will say. Or not. Now I’m not a gambling woman (not with money, anyway), but I would lay a large sum on a bet that we will not get that reaction once. In fact, before we came, a few people told us stories of their friend/sister/cousin who moved to America/Australia/Canada and their kids lost the accent when they came back home within weeks/months/days. It seems a reasonable thing to assume that a fellow Brit will share a dislike of an American accent, and also that it is ok, even in these politically correct days, to say so. Perhaps I could have a bit of fun, and pretend to my friends that I am charmed by my kids’ new accents. “Such cute intonation – we’re so thrilled for them” I could say, and watch friends’ faces as they struggle to work out if I’m being serious.
I don’t think there is any way to justify our attitudes to accents. I mean, it’s not as if an accent could be evolutionarily superior, is it? The soft lilting tones that we so admire in a Scot didn’t serve his cavemen ancestors any more useful purpose than the nasal elongated vowels of his American counterpart. I’m trying to think how one could argue that case. The caveman Scot was naturally better at imitating the subtle sounds of wild birds, and was thus better equipped to hunt them down and feed his family on nutritious poultry. The caveman American was better at warning his family of impending danger, because his loud holler carried farther. Hm. Not very convincing either way, is it? I think we just have to accept that when it comes to accents, we are all very insular and deeply prejudiced.
Or course it works in our favour here. We all know that the Americans just love the English or Scottish accent. At one point in my life, when it was a vague possibility (only a vague one) that I might move to New York, my friend there was very keen on the idea, on the basis that if I shared an apartment with her, and used my voice on her answerphone, her social life would take a dramatic turn for the better. It’s jolly spiffingly splendid to be on the receiving end of some positive discrimination, for something that comes for free. It’s not as if I have to work at my accent, or practise it, or pay for it. It’ll have to do me instead of cosmetic surgery for the duration of our time here. It’s not quite right, though, you have to agree. (Not quite right, but not so wrong that I didn’t shamelessly use my accent to avoid a ticket when a policeman on a motorbike pulled me over for having out of date tags – “oh miy goodness mee, offissa, Eye’m terriblee terriblee sorreee” - but that’s another story).
I must have become more used to the accent here than I realize. I went to see a high school production of Oliver recently, and after a few minutes, I began to wonder why the actors were all putting on odd, slow, stilted voices. Then the penny dropped (duuh). They were putting on English accents, and putting them on very well in fact. It must have been exhausting to have to sound so pretentious all the time. Is that what I sound like to them? And if so, why do they find it so attractive? But it will take a less self-interested woman than me to stand up at this point in time and say “Not attractive, just different”.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Foolish words
A couple of weeks ago (a fortnight, one might even say), I had to take 7-yo to the doctor for something fairly routine. In the bit of small talk that one has time for during a doctor's appointment here (shock, horror), I mentioned to the doctor that we'd had a really healthy winter season. The kids had been well, Husband and I had been well, not much in the way of bugs, coughs and colds. Oooooh noooo, I hear you wail. Yes, indeed it was foolish talk.
A week later, I have three sick kids, and a head cold. I am debating with myself why I am posting this, and I think it is for some e-sympathy. I have a superstitious sense, too, that if I repent of my foolhardy words in a public forum, perhaps Providence will relent, and everyone will be well again in 9 days time, so that we don't have to ferry poorly children across the Atlantic. Not fun.
There's something that is complicated about going to the doctor here, as well as understanding the insurance system (which I don't think anyone does, actually). It's the vocabulary. A surgery is something you have, not something you visit. Sick means ill, vomiting means sick. Fever means high temperature. I don't think they use the word poorly at all. Not even poorly. And it seems that 7-yo has walking pneumonia, which I just wish could be called a chest infection. I assume that is what it is, but doesn't "walking pneumonia" sound much worse? What they used to call the old man's friend, on legs. If we had to have walking pneumonia around the place, I would rather it was something in the back yard, alongside the creeping jenny and the climbing wisteria. But at least if it's walking pneumonia, it will respond to the antibiotics and not be mono (which was mentioned), which is glandular fever, and not nice in either language.
Today's turn at the doctor's office is 4-yo's, who I suspect has an ear infection. Usual symptoms, plus half a dozen large red circular marks on her arms and abdomen, including one perfectly centred over her tummy button. These may confuse the doctor, although if he looks carefully, he will see Barbie's face, and conclude, rightly, that a Barbie stamper with rather permanent ink has been in use. At least I hope he doesn't want to investigate further, as I'm sure the ailment isn't covered by insurance and it could be hugely expensive. Either that, or she will be hailed as some kind of miracle child in the religion that Barbie has become, and we'll have to set up a pink shrine on our front porch to accommodate worshippers, once word is out.
I've come a long way though. The first time I went to the doctor, early on in our time here, the receptionist told me brightly "there's a $20 co-pay today", and not having a clue what that was but assuming from her tone of voice that it was some kind of jolly little extra I could opt for, I replied equally brightly "oh, um, no thanks".
A week later, I have three sick kids, and a head cold. I am debating with myself why I am posting this, and I think it is for some e-sympathy. I have a superstitious sense, too, that if I repent of my foolhardy words in a public forum, perhaps Providence will relent, and everyone will be well again in 9 days time, so that we don't have to ferry poorly children across the Atlantic. Not fun.
There's something that is complicated about going to the doctor here, as well as understanding the insurance system (which I don't think anyone does, actually). It's the vocabulary. A surgery is something you have, not something you visit. Sick means ill, vomiting means sick. Fever means high temperature. I don't think they use the word poorly at all. Not even poorly. And it seems that 7-yo has walking pneumonia, which I just wish could be called a chest infection. I assume that is what it is, but doesn't "walking pneumonia" sound much worse? What they used to call the old man's friend, on legs. If we had to have walking pneumonia around the place, I would rather it was something in the back yard, alongside the creeping jenny and the climbing wisteria. But at least if it's walking pneumonia, it will respond to the antibiotics and not be mono (which was mentioned), which is glandular fever, and not nice in either language.
Today's turn at the doctor's office is 4-yo's, who I suspect has an ear infection. Usual symptoms, plus half a dozen large red circular marks on her arms and abdomen, including one perfectly centred over her tummy button. These may confuse the doctor, although if he looks carefully, he will see Barbie's face, and conclude, rightly, that a Barbie stamper with rather permanent ink has been in use. At least I hope he doesn't want to investigate further, as I'm sure the ailment isn't covered by insurance and it could be hugely expensive. Either that, or she will be hailed as some kind of miracle child in the religion that Barbie has become, and we'll have to set up a pink shrine on our front porch to accommodate worshippers, once word is out.
I've come a long way though. The first time I went to the doctor, early on in our time here, the receptionist told me brightly "there's a $20 co-pay today", and not having a clue what that was but assuming from her tone of voice that it was some kind of jolly little extra I could opt for, I replied equally brightly "oh, um, no thanks".
Friday, May 2, 2008
"Home" thoughts from abroad
In two weeks, we will be on English soil. Retrospectively, I’ll be able to call it a fortnight (did you know that Americans don’t use that word?). I’m excited and looking forward to it, and I know it will be a wonderful time, all 12 weeks of it, but I have to confess to being a little nervous too.
There will be so many good things. Seeing family and friends, time as a family together on holiday, enjoying the beauty of the gentle English countryside (I hope you all appreciate how lucky you are to have it on your doorsteps), seeing the sea. Oh goodness me, so much! It’s a vacation, and I want it to be that, but I can’t avoid the fact that it will also be a trip to the old country. I don’t want to use the word “home”. I’ve spent a year and a half carefully and consistently referring to here as “home”. So when I tell people we’re going to Britain for the summer, and they reply “oh how neat, you’re going back home”, I don’t let them spoil my record. I counter with “yes, we’re going to Britain”. I shouldn’t think they notice, but I have my own personal pc rules.
I don’t need to go to Britain any more. Last summer, I desperately needed to, wanted to, ached to, which in itself was probably a reason against. No, now I fear I almost need NOT to go. I might like it too much. The hermetic seal around my life here, a separate chapter, an interesting interlude, but not real life somehow, will be broken. I’ve invested of myself here heavily and genuinely. I haven’t pretended (well, sometimes a little). But I know deep down that I am like one of those old-fashioned toy clowns that children used to have, round at the bottom and weighted, so that they always bob back upright with a jingle when released by the chubby hands which bat them and hold them down at an angle. I do my best, but I can’t change my centre of gravity.
None of this is new, though, and none of it is rocket science, (or some touchy-feely equivalent of that – I don’t think rocket scientists would be all that hot on emotional analysis, actually). None of you will say “oh my goodness, Iota is going to Britain, and she’s feeling it’s a bit complicated, who’d have thought THAT?” You know me too well. And I don’t mind complicated, really. Not for myself. I do mind it for my children though.
I mind it for 10-yo, who loves it here, has grown into a life which he can’t bear to think of moving away from, and for whom the question “how long will we stay in America?” is threatening and best avoided. I know friends will ask, and I know if he's in earshot I will fashion the answer more for him than for them, pass it off lightly, and not look in the direction of his face as I do so.
I mind it for 7-yo, who is fiercely proud of his Scottish birthright, and occasionally comes home from school with an A4 wax-crayonned Saltire: “we had some spare time in Art, and she said we could draw whatever we wanted”. I mind that the place which retains a hold on him might live up to his expectations, and make it hard to leave. I mind that it might disappoint, and that afternoons with friends of 18 months ago will not be what he imagines.
I mind it for 4-yo, who thinks she remembers Scotland and her little friends, but probably remembers the stories we have told her, the memories we have created for her. I mind that she will adore the beach, and though the coast of Fife even in summer won’t be quite the same as her mental picture of a beach (California), she will flit about in her wellies and warm fleece (I think you can flit in wellies…), enjoying again the freedom and space and openness that I and she used to delight in, and now so lack in our impoverished hemmed-in suburbia.
I mind for us as a family, that we don’t share the same place in our minds when we root around for where we think of as "home" (oh, that word again). I mind for the family we have in Britian, who will have to say good-bye to us again, with a brave face.
Bother. I thought I meant it when I said I didn’t mind complicated.
There will be so many good things. Seeing family and friends, time as a family together on holiday, enjoying the beauty of the gentle English countryside (I hope you all appreciate how lucky you are to have it on your doorsteps), seeing the sea. Oh goodness me, so much! It’s a vacation, and I want it to be that, but I can’t avoid the fact that it will also be a trip to the old country. I don’t want to use the word “home”. I’ve spent a year and a half carefully and consistently referring to here as “home”. So when I tell people we’re going to Britain for the summer, and they reply “oh how neat, you’re going back home”, I don’t let them spoil my record. I counter with “yes, we’re going to Britain”. I shouldn’t think they notice, but I have my own personal pc rules.
I don’t need to go to Britain any more. Last summer, I desperately needed to, wanted to, ached to, which in itself was probably a reason against. No, now I fear I almost need NOT to go. I might like it too much. The hermetic seal around my life here, a separate chapter, an interesting interlude, but not real life somehow, will be broken. I’ve invested of myself here heavily and genuinely. I haven’t pretended (well, sometimes a little). But I know deep down that I am like one of those old-fashioned toy clowns that children used to have, round at the bottom and weighted, so that they always bob back upright with a jingle when released by the chubby hands which bat them and hold them down at an angle. I do my best, but I can’t change my centre of gravity.
None of this is new, though, and none of it is rocket science, (or some touchy-feely equivalent of that – I don’t think rocket scientists would be all that hot on emotional analysis, actually). None of you will say “oh my goodness, Iota is going to Britain, and she’s feeling it’s a bit complicated, who’d have thought THAT?” You know me too well. And I don’t mind complicated, really. Not for myself. I do mind it for my children though.
I mind it for 10-yo, who loves it here, has grown into a life which he can’t bear to think of moving away from, and for whom the question “how long will we stay in America?” is threatening and best avoided. I know friends will ask, and I know if he's in earshot I will fashion the answer more for him than for them, pass it off lightly, and not look in the direction of his face as I do so.
I mind it for 7-yo, who is fiercely proud of his Scottish birthright, and occasionally comes home from school with an A4 wax-crayonned Saltire: “we had some spare time in Art, and she said we could draw whatever we wanted”. I mind that the place which retains a hold on him might live up to his expectations, and make it hard to leave. I mind that it might disappoint, and that afternoons with friends of 18 months ago will not be what he imagines.
I mind it for 4-yo, who thinks she remembers Scotland and her little friends, but probably remembers the stories we have told her, the memories we have created for her. I mind that she will adore the beach, and though the coast of Fife even in summer won’t be quite the same as her mental picture of a beach (California), she will flit about in her wellies and warm fleece (I think you can flit in wellies…), enjoying again the freedom and space and openness that I and she used to delight in, and now so lack in our impoverished hemmed-in suburbia.
I mind for us as a family, that we don’t share the same place in our minds when we root around for where we think of as "home" (oh, that word again). I mind for the family we have in Britian, who will have to say good-bye to us again, with a brave face.
Bother. I thought I meant it when I said I didn’t mind complicated.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Being the youngest
I often wonder what effect the position of my children in the family has on their personality, their interests, their approach to life. I know I’m not alone in this. I’ve talked to enough other parents who also find it an intriguing question. I’d love to re-run my family with the three children in a different order, just to see how it changes them. I’d do several versions, varying the age gaps as well perhaps. Fortunately, life doesn’t work that way, and I’m left wondering.
Mostly it’s a game of conjecture. Would 10-yo be more or less easy-going if he hadn’t been the oldest? Would 4-yo be more or less confident if she had been an only child for the first 3 years of her life, as he was? Conjecture, with a touch of guilt now and then. The first child, inevitably, receives more parental time and attention. Subsequent children receive less, but I think there is a sense in which that removes a burden. There is definitely a lot to be said for getting on with your own childhood development while flying under the parental radar. So for me, it’s a touch of guilt, tempered with realism. I feel a bit bad that 4-yo’s preschool report tells me things I don’t know about her – that wouldn’t have happened with my eldest – but I know she has a richness of experience from muddling along with two big siblings that he never had. I’m not so aware of the progress of each skill and ability, I don’t spend much time and effort helping her learn to count and spell her name, but I’m a more experienced parent. That must count for something (I hope). I also have a wider perspective on the value of all this endless assessing of children’s abilities. I’m a third child myself (of four), and I’ve never had a moment when I would have chosen to change my lot.
Yes, mostly it’s a game of conjecture. Occasionally, though, there are incidents which I can categorically state would not have happened if the youngest was the eldest. A few days after 4-yo’s birthday, 10-yo had his best friend round. John, bless him, had patiently listened over snack-time while 4-yo regaled him with stories of all her new presents, before he and 10-yo disappeared off to their big boy occupations. A few minutes later, 4-yo rushed into the kitchen, and said “guess what I gave John, guess what I gave John”, with that post-birthday excitement still gleaming on her face. “I don’t know”, I said. I hoped that he hadn’t been embarrassed by (for his sake), or dismissive of (for her sake) whatever small piece of pink festive paraphernalia she had bestowed on him. A pink bow carefully saved from the gift wrap perhaps, or a Disney princess paper plate. “What did you give John?” I asked. “A wedgie!” she shouted, with gleeful triumph.
Now THAT wouldn’t have happened without older brothers.
Mostly it’s a game of conjecture. Would 10-yo be more or less easy-going if he hadn’t been the oldest? Would 4-yo be more or less confident if she had been an only child for the first 3 years of her life, as he was? Conjecture, with a touch of guilt now and then. The first child, inevitably, receives more parental time and attention. Subsequent children receive less, but I think there is a sense in which that removes a burden. There is definitely a lot to be said for getting on with your own childhood development while flying under the parental radar. So for me, it’s a touch of guilt, tempered with realism. I feel a bit bad that 4-yo’s preschool report tells me things I don’t know about her – that wouldn’t have happened with my eldest – but I know she has a richness of experience from muddling along with two big siblings that he never had. I’m not so aware of the progress of each skill and ability, I don’t spend much time and effort helping her learn to count and spell her name, but I’m a more experienced parent. That must count for something (I hope). I also have a wider perspective on the value of all this endless assessing of children’s abilities. I’m a third child myself (of four), and I’ve never had a moment when I would have chosen to change my lot.
Yes, mostly it’s a game of conjecture. Occasionally, though, there are incidents which I can categorically state would not have happened if the youngest was the eldest. A few days after 4-yo’s birthday, 10-yo had his best friend round. John, bless him, had patiently listened over snack-time while 4-yo regaled him with stories of all her new presents, before he and 10-yo disappeared off to their big boy occupations. A few minutes later, 4-yo rushed into the kitchen, and said “guess what I gave John, guess what I gave John”, with that post-birthday excitement still gleaming on her face. “I don’t know”, I said. I hoped that he hadn’t been embarrassed by (for his sake), or dismissive of (for her sake) whatever small piece of pink festive paraphernalia she had bestowed on him. A pink bow carefully saved from the gift wrap perhaps, or a Disney princess paper plate. “What did you give John?” I asked. “A wedgie!” she shouted, with gleeful triumph.
Now THAT wouldn’t have happened without older brothers.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Happy Birthday, a year on
I have been waging a slow and entirely ineffective war against Chuck E Cheese’s over the past year. The map on the website shows that we would have to move to either Vermont or Wyoming to live in a Chuck E-less state, and as neither of those two eventualities are likely just at the moment, I have had to bring the battle into my own home. Every time a commercial comes on the television and I hear the jingle "where a kid can be a kid", I say to my kids “but actually, Chuck E Cheese’s isn’t nearly as fun as it looks on the tv is it?”. They either chorus “yes it is” in unison, or don’t answer at all. This is how I know my attempts are ineffective (perceptive, me).
In spite of this, I did manage to avoid going there for 4-yo’s fourth birthday party. By a sneaky undercover operation, I made sure that a rival venue, Pump It Up, was higher up her list of desirable venues by the time her birthday came round. Pump It Up seems to me to be an altogether more healthy set-up (although still fairly rancid and not very parent-friendly). It’s a large barn of a place filled with bouncy castles and a huge inflatable slide. Apart from this being a broken limb waiting to happen, and a session there resulting in wild, hyped up children, I’m quite in favour of Pump It Up (“Pump Them Up” as a friend calls it). So thus it was that 4-yo had her party there, or half of it at any rate.
Technically speaking, she didn’t have her party there. That would have involved paying Pump It Up a serious amount of money for them to order pizza, and give me the use of the party room. So we just went along to the Preschool Play Session with half a dozen small friends and their mummies, had a good bounce around, and then came back to our house for nibbly snacks, birthday cake and a big slice of delicious plum pie. We didn’t do games and there were no pink frocks, but I satisfied my party-organising yearnings with decorating a room and a table, and filling some party bags. We had an ice cream cake from Dairy Queen, which was very exciting for me, since I’ve been wondering what Dairy Queen was like ever since I first heard the song Ariel by Dean Friedman, which must have been around 30 years ago (and if you’re struggling to remember that one, here's a youtube link. The clip is is 4 mins 21 secs long, but you’ll recognize it within the first 4 secs, I promise, and you can thank your lucky stars that, in this age of clickable choices, you have the option as to whether to listen to the whole thing or not).
The cake had some fancy candles on it, which burnt with different coloured flames, and which I’d bought in the MoMA Design Store during my trip to New York. Oh how smug I felt, until I saw them for half the price a couple of weeks later in my local Wal-Mart, and until I lit them, and found out that the flames, though quite possibly of interestingly varying hues, were almost invisible.
A year on, the whole birthday event had a much happier feel to it. My daughter had friends to invite, I knew how to get to the venue without puzzling over a map, we had a proper home to make festive, and I incidentally satisfied a 30 year long thirst for knowledge.
And the plum pie? Ah yes. I should explain about that. Many years ago, when I was in a dismal job which I truly hated, a friend of mine who was commiserating with me told me to look for the plums. There must be some projects, he said, which you like dealing with, which you seek out of your in-tray and put to the top. They’re your plums. Look for them. Actually, there weren’t any, not any at all; it was a dreadful job. The advice, however, has lived with me, and has helped me through many a dull situation. Not that becoming a Midwesterner is dull. I didn’t say that. But there is a certain dreariness in the slow process of growing roots in a new land: feeling a stranger the whole time, being an outsider, searching unsuccessfully for kindred spirits. That does get dull after a while. So I have had to employ my strategy of looking for plums. And I have found them. They were there at 4-yo’s party. Not a ready circle of mums from the same preschool or neighborhood, but a selection whom 4-yo and I have discovered in different places. None of the 5 of them had met each other before – I seem to have plucked my plums from different trees. They all helped make 4-yo’s day special. They know her well enough to know what present she would really like. They enjoyed her pleasure as she opened them. They are the people I can go to both for practical advice, and for a chewing over of the more puzzling questions of motherhood and life. They have, without exception, helped me out with a bit of childcare when I needed it. They make an effort to understand my extraordinary English take on life. I’ve even tried out the Chucky Jesus thing on one of them, and she laughed. I believe they would feel a gap if I was here no longer.
Birthday cake and plum pie. A rich and satisfying party mix.
In spite of this, I did manage to avoid going there for 4-yo’s fourth birthday party. By a sneaky undercover operation, I made sure that a rival venue, Pump It Up, was higher up her list of desirable venues by the time her birthday came round. Pump It Up seems to me to be an altogether more healthy set-up (although still fairly rancid and not very parent-friendly). It’s a large barn of a place filled with bouncy castles and a huge inflatable slide. Apart from this being a broken limb waiting to happen, and a session there resulting in wild, hyped up children, I’m quite in favour of Pump It Up (“Pump Them Up” as a friend calls it). So thus it was that 4-yo had her party there, or half of it at any rate.
Technically speaking, she didn’t have her party there. That would have involved paying Pump It Up a serious amount of money for them to order pizza, and give me the use of the party room. So we just went along to the Preschool Play Session with half a dozen small friends and their mummies, had a good bounce around, and then came back to our house for nibbly snacks, birthday cake and a big slice of delicious plum pie. We didn’t do games and there were no pink frocks, but I satisfied my party-organising yearnings with decorating a room and a table, and filling some party bags. We had an ice cream cake from Dairy Queen, which was very exciting for me, since I’ve been wondering what Dairy Queen was like ever since I first heard the song Ariel by Dean Friedman, which must have been around 30 years ago (and if you’re struggling to remember that one, here's a youtube link. The clip is is 4 mins 21 secs long, but you’ll recognize it within the first 4 secs, I promise, and you can thank your lucky stars that, in this age of clickable choices, you have the option as to whether to listen to the whole thing or not).
The cake had some fancy candles on it, which burnt with different coloured flames, and which I’d bought in the MoMA Design Store during my trip to New York. Oh how smug I felt, until I saw them for half the price a couple of weeks later in my local Wal-Mart, and until I lit them, and found out that the flames, though quite possibly of interestingly varying hues, were almost invisible.
A year on, the whole birthday event had a much happier feel to it. My daughter had friends to invite, I knew how to get to the venue without puzzling over a map, we had a proper home to make festive, and I incidentally satisfied a 30 year long thirst for knowledge.
And the plum pie? Ah yes. I should explain about that. Many years ago, when I was in a dismal job which I truly hated, a friend of mine who was commiserating with me told me to look for the plums. There must be some projects, he said, which you like dealing with, which you seek out of your in-tray and put to the top. They’re your plums. Look for them. Actually, there weren’t any, not any at all; it was a dreadful job. The advice, however, has lived with me, and has helped me through many a dull situation. Not that becoming a Midwesterner is dull. I didn’t say that. But there is a certain dreariness in the slow process of growing roots in a new land: feeling a stranger the whole time, being an outsider, searching unsuccessfully for kindred spirits. That does get dull after a while. So I have had to employ my strategy of looking for plums. And I have found them. They were there at 4-yo’s party. Not a ready circle of mums from the same preschool or neighborhood, but a selection whom 4-yo and I have discovered in different places. None of the 5 of them had met each other before – I seem to have plucked my plums from different trees. They all helped make 4-yo’s day special. They know her well enough to know what present she would really like. They enjoyed her pleasure as she opened them. They are the people I can go to both for practical advice, and for a chewing over of the more puzzling questions of motherhood and life. They have, without exception, helped me out with a bit of childcare when I needed it. They make an effort to understand my extraordinary English take on life. I’ve even tried out the Chucky Jesus thing on one of them, and she laughed. I believe they would feel a gap if I was here no longer.
Birthday cake and plum pie. A rich and satisfying party mix.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
