NS October 29th, 2009

Did I tell you that I found a childminder? That starting next week I will have two childfree days in which to do my own thing? No? Oh, sorry. I must’ve been too busy simultaneously fretting about it and jumping up and down with ecstatic joy to get round to blogging. You know how it is…

So yes, we’ve decided that I won’t be returning to full-time work just yet. Too expensive for two kids to make it worth the time and trouble. Once TNC starts school in September, we can more easily afford childcare. But there was no way I was going to be satisfied with waiting another 10-11 months before I did anything for my career so I decided to use the money I’m earning with my freelance job to pay for childcare two days a week. With a commitment from my mother-in-law to have each child one day a week, I only needed someone to look after TNC for one afternoon a week, after pre-school, and TNB for one full day (from 9-4). Luckily, I found someone straight away and we met last week. She was absolutely lovely, her house was lovely and we clicked straight away. She has a little boy TNB’s age and also looks after a little girl the same age. So two playmates his own age and no older children to run riot ’round him? Result!

After two afternoons spent at her house and my three pages of questions met satisfactorily, “Jane” and I signed the contracts and I handed over the month’s fees in advance. And this morning I walked the children to her house, where after a brief chat and settling in period, I had to kiss the top of my crying son’s head, trying desperately not to cry myself, walk out of the house and shut the door. It was the heaviest door ever, I tell you.

My mother-in-law was outside, ready to take TNC back to her house. I swallowed the lump in my throat, kept my hands busy loading her things in the car, and after TNC had been driven away and I could hear that my boy had stopped crying inside, I stood, all alone, on the pavement. All alone, for the first time in so very long. All alone, for two whole hours. I should’ve been ecstatic, according to some. According to others, I should’ve been bereft, and beating myself up with guilt.

Instead, I was a mixture of the two. I walked slowly away, my bag heavy on my shoulder but a smile slowly coming to my face. I felt like skipping and crying at the same time. Finally, the time to write. Finally, the time to realise my dreams. But still, the self-doubt crept in. Would he be okay? Would I?

The leaves on the ground and the sun in the sky reminded me that seasons are ever-changing. We are ever-changing. This is simply a new season in my life, in all of ours. It was inevitable. It is necessary. But damn it if it doesn’t also hurt a little.

• Career , Family , Parenting 101 , Squish Squish , The Noble Baby
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NS October 28th, 2009

• Antics of The Noble Child , Family , Londonista , Parenting 101 , Photos , Wordless Wednesday
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NS October 26th, 2009

I taught The Noble Child to say “Make my day, punk!” in a joke video that I sent to my sister.

Because that made us giggle, I also taught her to say “Talk to the hand.”

Next, “Rock on, dude!”

But you know the dangers of teaching your children to say funny things purely for your entertainment at home that you wouldn’t necessarily like them to spout it in public, right? And you see where this is going? Yes, I’m sure you do.

So yes, today in the grocery store my 3-year-old daughter looked at a man in the frozen food aisle and said, as he leaned in near us to get a bag of petit pois, “Make my day, punk!” He nearly dropped the tiny, tender peas and I nearly choked on my own saliva as I alternated between laughing and stammering. I muttered a strangled “Sorry ’bout that” and turned to flee.

I ushered her quickly to the vast array of juices the next aisle over where, before I could do anything, she ran up to an elderly women putting orange juice in her trolley and gleefully shouted “Rock on, dude!” The old lady gasped and nearly jumped right out of her blue-rinsed, permanently-waved hair, looking utterly confused at this command. Fervent apologies were made as I clung to the hood of TNC’s jacket and she scrambled to escape my grip, undoubtedly so she could run off and tell someone to talk to her hand.

It might be awhile before we go to Waitrose again.

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NS October 25th, 2009

He walked up behind me at the bus stop, where I had just arrived moments earlier. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye and found nothing warranting closer inspection. Late 30s, dark suit, dark hair, briefcase in hand. Nothing more than a guy on his way to work, though it was well past rush hour and most businesspeople had already been in the office for an hour or so. I lifted the corners of my mouth in the almost-imperceptible ‘this is London and I don’t know you so I’m being a bit wary’ smile and turned back to looking for the bus, which was due any moment according to the electronic message board.

He took one step closer and asked, while gesturing towards the message board, “Do all of these buses go to Richmond station?”

“Yes, it’s only the 65 that goes past here and they all go to the station. Should be one here by now but that thing has said ‘bus due’ for a good five minutes now. You know how accurate these things are,” I said with a shrug and an subtle eyeroll, to indicate my disapproval of London’s public transport system, a required topic of conversation while waiting for a bus or train.

“I just got here yesterday so I’m not sure how this all works. How much does it cost?”

I explained about Oyster cards and cash fares and the benefits of travel cards and in the course of hearing his replies, recognised his accent as Australian. I asked him if he was over here on business or had actually moved over and he affirmed it was the latter. He’d been in Hong Kong for a year previously and was now being relocated here. His family would follow in December, once he’d gotten the house sorted and organised. He’d only arrived yesterday and this was his first attempt at navigating his way through a strange transport system in a strange land and he had no idea what he was doing.The hot water and heating weren’t working in his new house and he’d had the pleasure of a cold shower on his first morning. What a suitable introduction to Britain, I thought!

I told him not to worry, that I was an expat too, and that I’d been just where he was before. This seemed to really put him at ease and he started asking me questions about London. I answered them as best I could, trying to balance practical tips and insights with avoidance of information overload. I asked him where he would be working and helped him figure out the best route for getting there and advised him on which fare option would be cheapest. He said he hadn’t been on a bus or a train for so long that he wasn’t even sure how they worked anymore. Bless him. I remembered so vividly feeling the same way when I first arrived here, having no idea what I was doing or where I was going.

When the bus arrived I went ahead of him and showed him how to press his Oyster card against the reader. He looked up and then around him and asked me how he let the driver know when he wanted to get off. I laughed and said “Were you looking for a bit of string at the top to pull? That’s what I did as well,” and he sheepishly said he had. I showed him the red ‘Stop’ button and explained that you used the rear doors to exit only.

The bus was crowded so it was hard to chat much once we were on board, but I watched him out of the corner of my eye as we progressed along the road and the Thames came into sight on Richmond Hill. It’s a great view even on the greyest of days but with the cloudless blue sky, dazzling mid-morning sunshine and autumn leaves at their most glorious, it was truly spectacular. When I saw his eyes light up and his neck crane to take in more of the view as we flew down the road, I felt a sharp pang of wistful nostalgia hit me in the stomach. Oh, to be fresh off the boat again! To be on such an adventure, seeing everything in a new and wondrous (albeit slightly scary and confusing) light. To not know what is around the corner or what will happen next. To not be afraid to talk to strangers waiting for the bus or openly reveal that you don’t know where you’re going. To not be so accustomed to and weary of navigating London that you don’t stick your head out the window to see just a little bit more of the Thames before it’s gone again, or the historic cobblestone streets and centuries-old churches and pubs that make up the living, breathing fabric of this city.

Thank you, Aussie-guy-at-bus-stop, for making me remember what makes this place great and what makes the expat experience so exhilirating. For all its frustrations and sadnesses, living a life where there are always surprises and moments of childlike wonder is a gift, one that can be unwrapped over and over again.

Image credit: jochenWolters’ Flickr photostream, via a Creative Commons license

• Britishisms , Expat Life , Londonista , That's Life
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NS October 21st, 2009

Things are a little quiet here. I’m feeling a little quiet. Introspective, even. It’s no big surprise, really. I think most bloggers go through short periods of time every so often in which it seems better to be taking things in that churning them out. I’ve taken breaks before and I’ve always come back. I ain’t quittin’ you, Internet, and this isn’t an official ‘break’, but I’m just not going to force myself to blog about nothing if that’s all I’ve got to say. Though…isn’t that what I’m doing right now?

Maybe it’s the change in season or my decision to start looking at going back to work and all the planning that is going into that, but I’ve been finding myself crunching numbers for our childcare budget and reading in bed with cups of tea more appealing than sitting in front of the computer getting angry at all the douchebags, numbskulls and ignoramuses out there.

Like the guy who wrote the book pictured above. I picked this book up at a secondhand shop on Sunday whilst out for a boozy lunch with my good friend, H. We’d had two bottles of wine over a gorgeous Turkish meal and had left more than a little tipsy. Seeing as I’d been for my bibliotherapy session earlier that morning, we’d stumbled over to the bookshop on the premise of finding the book I’d been ‘prescribed.’  Lo, we could not find The Last Samurai and had to settle for the ridiculously titled Sperm Are From Men, Eggs Are From Women: The *real* reason men and women are diferent to amuse ourselves with as we went off in search of another pub. At least twice per drink, H would shout out a page and paragraph number and I would do a short dramatic reading of that passage while sloshing my drink around as I gesticulated wildly.  Another bottle of wine and a couple of gin and tonics later, I was reading passages out loud to people on the train on the way home.

What can I say, I’m a literate drunk. I’m sure the other passengers were thrilled.

At one point, while gesturing with the hand holding a lollipop I’d found in the bottom of my handbag and which I was happily licking between bouts of indignant gesturing, I dropped it on the floor near my seatmate’s shoe. Charming.

At least I wasn’t dropping atomic bombs on anybody because, apparently, I am responsible for that as well, as one of those evil American types. Or at least, so sayeth a man in the park earlier that day who, upon hearing my accent, launched into a diatribe about it and demanded I give him some answers. Seeing as it all happened 34 years before I was even born, I had none, sadly.

Ever since Obama came into office I’ve seen a sharp decline in the amount of anti-American encounters I have, which were at their height during the Bush years, so I was taken a little more off guard than I normally am. From 2002 through most of 2008 I wouldn’t have blinked an eye if someone wanted to shout at me about bombs, though usually the diatribe was aimed at the variety being rained down upon Iraq and Afghanistan, not The Big One during World War II.

Still, this is something I’ve just gotten used to the longer I’ve lived here. Having an American accent will, for the moment, always mark me out as different, as privileged and (usually) as either a bit off my rocker, slightly stupid or ragingly arrogant. Such appealing stereotypes to face on a daily basis, no?

Conversely, having a British accent in America marks one out as exceedingly intelligent, humorous and polite, if a little stuffy and prudish. It’s not surprising that I had little sympathy for The Noble Husband when we were living in the States and he would complain of being teased for the way he said ‘water’ or ‘pawn’  or ‘tuna’. Most of the time people were falling all over themselves to hear him speak and thought he was the epitome of class and charm. Repeat after me: poooooor widdle thing!

Anyway, that concludes my inane babbling about breaks, budgets, books, booze and bombs. Hopefully, I’ll get my blogging mojo back soon. Until then, I’ll be curled up in my duvet thinking about one of the aforementioned Bs.

• Banal Breakdown , Career , Expat Life , Londonista
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