NS December 1st, 2009

Things are a bit unsettled here at Casa del Savage. The Noble Child caught impetigo (from some crusty urchin who planted an infested kiss on her face, I presume) and so missed all of last week at preschool, resulting in levels of cabin fever and exasperation not seen since the summer holidays. Because her condition was contagious, we couldn’t even venture into a playgroup, the library or a cafe. It rained much of the week and TNB was also sprouting teeth like he’d been reincarnated as a shark. My days were spent holding a howling 3-year-old down to apply antibiotic cream, alternately cuddling and saying “What do you want?!” to an inconsolable 1-year-old and dealing with a raging case of PMS that saw me sustain a chocolate-related injury (I bent my index fingernail backwards while trying to break apart a large bar of Dairy Milk which had been in the fridge — it’s still black and blue).

On top of that, it was the end of the month, hence being broke and eating cheap meals and not being able to splurge on lovely lattes or a new book or anything like that. Usual end-of-month story. It was also Thanksgiving, which always finds me pretty homesick and missing my family, especially since it was the first major holiday since my grandfather died a couple months ago. The Noble Husband left work early and we took the kids to a restaurant for a (non-Thanksgivingy) meal and then I went to Jen’s on Saturday for a proper turkey fest, which was lovely, but it’s still hard not to miss family on such a family-oriented day.

On top of THAT (I’m almost finished bitching, I swear!), my laptop’s hard drive failed and I had to send it off to be repaired. It’s still under warranty so won’t cost me anything but I lost some data, namely the outline for my book. Thankfully I found about half of it on my Google Docs but the rest has vanished into the ether. Must. Start. Backing. Up. No more assuming it won’t happen again. If that wasn’t enough, TNB pulled my precious baby, my Canon Rebel Xsi, down from the bookshelf, where I’d placed it after trying to get some snaps of them in their Christmas pyjamas. It’s not totally demolished but something has been shaken loose internally and will require repair. It’s still under warranty as well but I bought it in the US, from an eBay store, so I’m not sure how sending it back for repair will work or if I’ll be able to get it back before Christmas. I’m guessing not. So that’s a downer.

The icing on this shit cake is that I’m also having some personal issues that need dealing with and that is preoccupying my thoughts. Add to this the fact that we haven’t done a scrap of Christmas shopping yet, TNC’s primary school admission application is due this Friday and I haven’t done it yet, and that I am working on some freelance articles, my book and am launching a new website and it’s easy to see why I have been and may continue to be quiet on the blogging front for a little while yet.

Now that you’re all up to date on what’s going wrong in my life, let me fill you in on what’s going right. This is the only thing making me smile sometimes these days. Behold, TNB’s “kiss face.”

This is what he does when you say “Give mama/dada/your sister a kiss!” The way he puckers up, long before a lip or cheek is in reach, just cracks us up.  If either TNH or I are in a less-than-stellar mood we just ask for a kiss and let it make us laugh and melt our heart at the same time. I may start calling it Kiss Therapy.

Thank you, my darling boy, for reminding me that all the other stresses and mundane details in life don’t matter. Time with my family and kisses from my children? That’s all I need to see me through this rough patch.

• Home and Hearth , I Bitch Therefore I Am , Miscellaneous Missives , Photos , The Noble Baby
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NS September 22nd, 2009

The Noble Child started at her pre-school last Friday and is now going four mornings a week. The other morning, Thursday, she goes to her grandma’s house for the day. That means that every day of the week we have to be out of the house by 9am sharp. It also means she’s out of my house every morning. This has turned out to be a very good thing. Not just for her, but for me.

Before she started, I often shuddered at the thought of having to go from lazing around all morning to performing the military operation of getting children and self ready and out the door on time for school. I thought of myself as more free-spirited, less regimented than that. School uniforms on, bags packed, breakfast made and eaten, showered, dressed, hair combed and tied back, appropriate shoes and jackets located, snacks/lunches packed, pushchair and scooter ready to go (or kids in carseats, if driving), all before 9am?! You’re mad, I would’ve said. M-A-D. There is NO way this will happen, or at least it won’t happen without tears, tantrums and frantic last-minute dashes back inside the house for forgotten items, half-eaten toast and skimming of crumpled newsletters outlining what the children should bring with them or do on that particular day as I smack a palm to my forehead in panic.

I will crumble under the pressure, under the authoritarianism of it all, I thought. I’m not one of those super-efficient working mothers who does this every day without blinking, I’m a lazy, coddled SAHM who doesn’t HAVE to be anywhere, really. I won’t be able to hack it. But it turns out, I was wrong. Really wrong.

Not ony have I managed to get us all ready and there with time to spare, but I’ve been so much more productive in all other areas of my life as well. Being showered and fed and out the door seems to be curing what I thought was my laziness and gives me some kind of strange energy I had forgotten I ever possessed. I’ve been ticking things off of my to-do list, engaging more fully and happily with the children, getting more housework done, cooking healthier meals, spending less time on the internet and more time reading and working on my book, and I even applied for a full-time freelance job. I’m in the middle of this starburst of creativity and patience and, dare I say, contentment.

So this is what it must feel like to be one of those happy SAHMs, I realise, not the miserable, snarling, impatient ones  who just wants FIVE MINUTES TO HER FREAKIN’ SELF isthatsomuchtoaskhmm? before her goddamn head explodes and the wine is poured prompty at five because it’s the only thing keeping her hanging onto a very thin thread.

I feel content. I feel fulfilled. I feel happy.

I haven’t said those words (and meant them) in a very long time, it seems. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve not been so down that I haven’t had moments of contentment or happiness or fulfillment, but not all three. Not all at once, for more than a few hours, or a day.

Granted, I realise that the first week of school often does this to people (from what I’ve read on mothers with more experience under their belts) and that inertia may eventually set in again, but even if it does, I now know that as much as I resisted the idea, I need structure to my days. I am a much better parent when I keep going and stay busy, not allowing myself to sit down and think too much about all the things that are going wrong or that I’d rather be doing. I thrive on having a full, varied schedule with the children, even if it’s just “Tuesday: cafe for tea. Wednesday: playground with friend down the road. Friday: ballet and then out for ice cream.” Or whatever. But I’ve noticed that if I take the kids out twice a day, even if it’s just to the shops or the library or to climb to the top of a hill and then race down, we all get on so much better. I suppose being cooped up in a small terraced house all day, tripping over one another and generally just getting on each other’s nerves is a recipe for disaster, really. It’s a wonder we’re all still alive. Cramped spaces make everything seem worse, don’t they?

I know that once winter sets in and life settles down again and the newness wears off, I might find myself backsliding to that place, the one I now know was teetering on the edge of depression, but for now I’m enjoying the moment. I’m connecting with my kids, especially TNC, like I haven’t in quite awhile. Our relationship is thriving. They deserve a better, happier, more balanced mother. And it turns out, all I needed to make that happen was an early shower and spending a lot more time out of the house. Who knew?

All I can say is thank god for the iPhone. Instead of wanting to get back home because I’m bored stiff at the playground and want to check emails, I can just park myself on a bench and keep one eye on my progeny while the other composes electronic messages.

Technology, you will be either the undoing of me or the making of me. I guess we’ll find out which soon enough.

• Home and Hearth , Miscellaneous Missives , Parenting 101 , School
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NS June 7th, 2009

I’ve been staring at this screen for half an hour, my fingers poised above the keyboard, but nothing comes. I’ve got a list of things to blog about but lack the willpower to muster up the energy and thought that they would require.

All is quiet. The Noble Husband is out, the children are asleep. I’ve turned off the radio and the tv. The white clock is tick-tick-ticking on the mantle. I should be reading, or working on my book, or cleaning. But all I can think about is Chicago and our arrival there in 11 days. My thoughts are consumed by the planning of our trip, the details and nuances of international travel. What will we take on the flight to keep the kids entertained? Where are our suitcases and will we be able to fit everything? When should I go get the traveler’s cheques? I’m a professional listmaker and consummate organiser who has traveled aplenty. I’ve done this a thousand times but for some reason it feels different, more important this time. My heartstrings are pulling me back to my homeland and at the moment the string feels so tight that I could snap in two from the pressure.

It’s been more than two years since I’ve been back. That’s the longest I’ve ever been gone. There are so many things I’m looking forward to while there, including the usual (spending time with family and friends, going to favourite places, enjoying the weather and eating favourite foods) and the special (introducing my son to my father for the first time; a family reunion at a lakeside cabin; my 30th birthday). But as the trip draws closer and I get more dizzyingly excited about the wonderful time I’m going to have, an impending sense of gloom descends as I consider this unfortunate truth: every day that brings me closer to seeing my family is another day closer to having to say goodbye again. I know that’s a horribly pessimistic way to look at it but enough trips and enough heartache have taught me to prepare myself for the flip side of “going home.”

I imagine the contentment and joy I will feel as I look at my entire family assembled together in one place, interacting in the flesh instead of over telephone lines and via webcams on computer screens, and know that the sorrow I will feel upon leaving it behind again will crush me like the weight of a thousand stones. I will carry those stones of sadness all the way back across the ocean where they will sit in my heart until the next trip is made. I’m afraid that when it comes times to board the plane that I will not have the strength to see my mother’s tears or my father’s jaw clench as he folds me into a hug. I will want to cling to them like I was a child again myself, ask them to protect me and love me and carry me home because I’m too tired to put one foot in front of the other.

My children will wave and look over their shoulders at their grandparents, who they communicate with mainly through wires and gadgets, and not know when they’ll see them again. My heart will break when The Noble Child wakes up the first morning back here in London and asks where her Nana and Boppy are. She will sit with me on the bed while I unpack and be puzzled when I turn my back and begin to shake in silent convulsions.

Later, I will sob into my husband’s chest and pound my fist into a pillow, mourning our return like a loss. I will resent him a little bit, be frustrated by the nature of our citizenry. I will find the food tastes horrible, nothing works as it should and the weather miserable, no matter the temperature. I will say I’m moving back, that I can’t stand this country anymore, and I will talk about making plans to do just that. The stones will get heavier as my sorrow deepens and I struggle with the reality of living on another continent.

And then things will get back to normal. Our tans will fade, the photos will be stored into albums on the computer and we won’t talk about what we did and who we saw all the time anymore. We’ll return to school and work and life (the others a little easier than I will find it) and start figuring out when we can see them again. I will heal my heart from the bruising it endured under the weight of those stones and then I will start casting them off, one by one, to make room for the love and joy that my little family here, my nucleus, instill in me daily. I will choose to forget the goodbye and focus on the hello, the happiness of being together.

Life goes on because it always does, but it’s a life with a piece of me missing.

• Expat Life , Home and Hearth , Squish Squish , Travel
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NS June 1st, 2009

The weather in London has been rather glorious for the past few days, explaining my bloglessness as of late. I tried to get the laptop out into the garden for some sneaky posting in between gardening, setting up and sitting at the new patio furniture, grilling various meats and vegetables, drinking beer and playing with the Noble clan, but the glare on the screen was too great, making my eyes and back very sore from all the squinting and hunching. I gave up after five minutes and declared the weekend a mini break from t’internet. But not to fear, dear readers, for we are like the two cowboys in Brokeback Mountain and no matter how much I sometimes despise our love, find it lonely and inconvenient and shameful, deep down I know I can never quit you. So come here and give me a big wet one. Mmwah!

On Saturday, The Noble Husband’s football team was in the FA Cup final and so he’d invited a few guys round to watch it with him. I was supposed to disappear with the children for a few hours to leave them to their male bonding (or something like that) but in the end I managed to beg off dragging them round the shops and various playgrounds and finangled a place on the sofa to watch the match and drink some brewskies with the boys. TNH’s team lost, sadly, but his mates cheered him up by challenging him to a game of poker and then taking all his money (and mine!) and leaving our house looking like a tip. That’s the mark of true friendship for men, apparently. It sounds so much easier and more relaxed than female friendship, don’t you think? We have to listen and nurture and empathize and be diplomatic. They just engage in some lighthearted banter, drink some beer and play cards until the game is over or the last train is ready to depart, whichever comes first.

Sunday. Oh, Sunday was brilliant. It was one of those days that seems to go on forever, but in a good way. I got to sleep in until 9am, which is fan-bloody-tastic, and then came downstairs to coffee and pastries while perusing the news online. Shortly afterward I had my shower and headed out to the garden to play with the children and utlitise the aforementioned new patio furniture. That I can now sit outside in the shade (shade being very important for my pale-as-paper complexion) while I enjoy various beverages makes me immeasurably happy. Insanely, suburbanly happy. Next think you know I’ll be throwing dinner parties and serving prawn cocktails as a starter, with a pineapple-and-cheese-on-toothpicks for canapes. And Chicken Kiev served with boiled-to-death vegetables as the main. And Blackforest Gateau for dessert.

Oh wait, that would be a variety of suburbanity (is that a word?) from the 1970s, not today. But still, not far off. It’s a slipperly slope out here in Dullsville and if I don’t stop grinning inanely at weather-resistant chairs and the free seat cushions that came with them, I may as well get one of those yellow ‘Baby On Board’ stickers for my car, start coordinating my gardening clogs with my baking apron (I have neither) and take to mocking the great unwashed queuing up for their dinner at KFC to make myself feel better. Ah, to be middle class.

Carrying on with the Good Suburbanite theme, I then cleaned out and hoovered the inside of the car before driving it over to the hand carwash being offered by several tanned men with heavy Mediterranean accents. Watching immigrant men with bulging biceps lean over my windscreen to scrub my car on a hot day while I sat inside singing along to the radio and basking in the air conditioning must’ve been enough to strip me of several feminist badges if the internet’s eyes had been upon me. Good thing we were on a break! As I had cut off outside communications, I allowed myself the guilty pleasure of hiring someone to do what I could easily do myself if I wasn’t so damn lazy, and somewhat enjoying the scenery to boot. Oh, the shame!

A little later in the afternoon I got both children to sleep and then nipped off to the cafe for some more coffee and a spot of writing; a much needed reprieve. When I returned it was time for TNC’s dinner and a webcam with my parents. Halfway through our Skype chat and TNH announces that we’ve been invited to come have a quick drink and a run-around by the river with a couple friends, one of whom has a 4-year-old girl. Seeing as TNC utterly adores girls anywhere from one to five years older than her, we knew she’d love it. Plus, one can never be sure when a warm spell will end so we thought “Sod bedtime, it’s down the river we go!” We set off just after 6pm and didn’t arrive home until half eight but it was a magnificent way to end the day – sipping a cool drink on a blanket by the River Thames, llistening to some chilled out music and chatting away while watching two children run and squeal and play. I could’ve lived on that blanket forever. But alas, it was Sunday night and we had to get back to get the nippers into bed and have a late dinner.

Afterwards, we finished watching a WWII-based film we’d started a few days before and then sat up chatting about world conflicts and alliances, military aggression, battle strategy and other things important to a game of Risk. Can I just say how much I love that my husband and I talk about things like this? We love learning from each other and discussing ideas and history when we get a chance or a reason. The occurences may be fewer and farther between now that we have small children to look after, but the pleasure we take in it remains the same.

And today, another beautiful day spent mostly outdoors or out-and-about, hence my late post. If this good weather continues you can expect more late-night musings as I enjoy the sunshine hours with my family. Though I did see that there are glare-reducing screen covers that you can get for your monitor….

• Friends , Funny Ha-Ha , Home and Hearth , Londonista , Miscellaneous Missives , Til Death Do Us Part
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NS May 8th, 2009

The ability of scent to evoke long-forgotten memories never ceases to amaze me. Walking along, busily going about my day, I am occasionally stopped dead in my tracks by my nose. I sniff the air again to be sure and then a flash of memory (sometimes brief and hazy and at others prolonged and detailed) comes and burns itself to the back of my eyelids. External stimuli are shut out as my mind desperately attempts to grab at the bucking legs of these memories, lassoing and then corralling them for safekeeping.

Likewise, the power of the memories to evoke emotions I thought I’d lost or buried is something otherworldly, a process that I don’t mind if I don’t understand, for its mysteriousness is part of its magic. A scent is like a time machine — a heartwrenching, joyful, vivid time machine that transports us back to places, people and states of mind that we may never visit again or recapture otherwise.

The heady musk of leather, manure, sweat and oats instantly transports me back to the stable on my family’s farm where I spent hours upon hours with my dappled Appaloosa quarterhorse, Applejack, brushing his mane, picking rocks and dirt from his hooves and feeling the soft velvet of his nose as he nuzzled my carrot-proffering palm.

The scent of apples, hay, rain and musty library books brings me instantly back to 10 years old, holed up in my ‘reading nest’ in the barn, where I went, always with book and apple in hand, to be alone, to dream, to think, to cry, to explore and imagine.

Cinnamon and crayons finds me sitting at our kitchen table, munching on freshly-baked toast sprinkled with brown, spicy goodness and a large sheet of drawing paper before me, my mother humming at the sink.

The stale, sterile smell of surgical dressings, iodine and medicine permeating my nostrils and my brain as I struggled to acknowledge that my little sister’s illness would soon make me the youngest.

More happily, the scent of lemon candies and coconut always bring her to mind as she was before cancer so cruelly whisked her away in its own time machine. In my mind, she is forever five, sleeping serenely in her lavender room.

One whiff of Avon lotions and potions sends me straight back to my grandmother’s house, where boxes of makeup and creams sat piled up in the Secret Mamaw-Only Room, waiting to be loaded into her car and delivered. Also, cold glasses of milk and Cheetos. The juxtaposition of the neon orange fingerprints against the pure white liquid in the glass was an artform that only Mamaw appreciated.

Inhaling Old Spice in the crook of my father’s neck as he folded me into Daddy’s Girl bear hugs over the years. Oh, what I would give some days for a hug from my dad.

I can’t inhale the fragrance of honeysuckle now without remembering recess in my first year of elementary (primary) school. The fragrant plants that surrounded the swing sets were there when I forged my first friendships and took increasingly steadier steps towards independence.

Dirt, taffy and hot dogs = the Little League ballpark. Keeping score up in the booth overhead on long, hot summer days; the beginnings of interest in boys; and probably the first place I was allowed to go without adult accompaniment.

Obsession cologne. My first huge crush wore it and I kept a sample card sprayed with the scent between the pages of my poetry journal. Years later, after the card had fallen out, the pages still gave off that distinctive odor as they were fanned and thumbed through. The smell of puppy love.

Even today, I am forging new associations between certain scents and memories. My latest one is a honey and lemon bath milk from L’Occitane that my husband bought me for Mother’s Day last year. I used it for the duration of my last pregnancy, every time I took a bath, which was almost daily towards the end. I used up the last of it recently but couldn’t bring myself to throw away the bottle. I sat there with the water running, eyes closed and a smile on my lips, as I held the empty container to my nose and inhaled deeply. That smell — like a giant cup of sweet-smelling tea — will forever be deposited into my olfactory bank and when I next detect it in the air, I will be eight months pregnant again, running a hand over my protruding belly and dreaming of meeting my darling son.

• Home and Hearth , Miscellaneous Missives , Squish Squish
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