AN AMERICAN MOM ABROAD

When your toddler’s favorite word is ‘fart’...

2012-01-29T15:05:00.000-08:00

...you know that one of a number of things may be at play. It could mean that he’s growing up in a household of all boys. Big boys who think it’s hilarious when he says it. Hence the fact that he’s heard it a lot. The word. I mean. Or well...

When a 21 months old starts gleefully shouting that word hundreds of times a day I laugh. I roll my eyes a bit. I also take stock. That much farting does not signal healthy guts. That much farting is an indication that, as we say around here, "I got somethin' bad inside of me!" The holistic, slightly-crunchy mindful eater and food-intolerance aware mama in me starts to take a look at all the contributing factors. Factors like a flare up of Caid’s eczema that has left little clumps of bleeding itchy rash-patches on both legs and around his nose and mouth and won’t go away no matter what cream I put on it. Factors like raging mood swings from all three boys. What‘s that you say? Raging mood swings from Mama? No! Factors like Caid’s crying, writhing-on-the-floor fits whilst holding his belly and crying, “My WAIST! My waist!” Factors like Mama’s serious bout of depression and constantly recurring yeast infections and general feeling of malaise. Then there’s the constant farting. From all five concerned parties. Cue gleeful toddler shouting “FART! FART!”

We had already looked into some of this late this summer. Caid and I both went on an elimination diet. Eating loads of veggies and meat and a tiny bit of fruit. It started helping, but then school started and things went steadily downhill from there until voila! We found ourselves subsisting on a diet of Pamela’s cupcakes and buckwheat chocolate chip cookies. WHAT?! They’re gluten and dairy free! Okay, so I’m exaggerating a bit. However when you add in the number of Dr Peppers per week and the bi-weekly trip to Carl’s Jr. for a low-carb burger (they have lettuce instead of a bun--brilliantly gluten free!) things were perhaps a tiny bit out of control.

The thing is, the sugar made me feel better! For about 30 minutes I’d feel like a million bucks. Then, not so much. A mama’s gotta have more than 30 minutes. So this mama was eating a lot of sugar. So apparently were my children. Because after 4 days of an elimination diet designed to heal up our guts and help us begin to identify the culprits, Bridger had a total flip out. He ran up to his room yelling, “I just need to let out some anger!” When I went to check on him he grabbed two fist fulls hair and explained wild-eyed, “It’s just that, I realized I got completely addicted to sugar. I don’t know how it happened, and I’m really mad at myself for letting it get so out of control. But when we’re having just like, meat and veggies, it’s really hard. Because all I want is sugar! And it’s REALLY hard at school because all the other kids are having all KINDS of sugar in their lunches!” Yeah. He’s nine. Wise little man.

Asher had two days of meltdown-centrals at meals. It got so bad last Thursday (yep, same day B freaked out. They were tag-teaming that night.) that I finally put him in the bath as a last resort. Which didn’t work. So I climbed in with him. Which didn’t work. He was screaming and crying. Finally I fed him his dinner, whilst holding him, in the tub. Not so pleasant to clean up afterward, but I figure I got an avocado-skin treatment out of the deal and it did finally help him calm down. Was it withdrawals? Two-year molars? A battle of the will over what he wanted to eat and what I had to offer? No idea. But dude, I will say this: that kid puts the ‘melt’ in ‘meltdown!’ Poor Bridger asked me, “Mama, do you think that Ash is getting teeth or something? or is he kind of always going to be like this?”

we're eating a lot more of this these days

Tantrums and freak outs aside the elimination diet is going really well. It’d be faster to tell you what we CAN eat. Fish, poultry, lean beef, lamb, non-starchy and low glycemic veggies (except nightshades like peppers and tomatoes), low-glycemic fruits, coconut milk or oil, olive oil, and fermented foods like kombucha, fermented veggies, etc. We’re also taking a supplement before meals that seals up our guts and lets them heal up a bit.

The report so far? I feel GREAT! My mood has been happier and more even than it has in MONTHS. The boys moods are evening out. The skin on Caid’s mouth looks better. Scott reports feeling more clear-headed and well than he has in months. Plus, there are definitely fewer toddler call-and-response sessions of “FART!”

Ever done an elimination diet or cleanse yourself? With your kiddos? Any helpful tips to offer?

Releasing "The Sads"

2012-01-23T17:07:00.000-08:00

“Anger,” Dad says, “is blocked expectations.” I notice myself listening from that deep place. The place that is filled with a little too much darkness and remembers light and longs for it. I notice the grown up girl in me that does not shy away from a father’s admonition and advice, but instead grabs hold--a rope of wisdom thrown into the pit. He says more wise and kind things. He talks about how it’s okay to not be who I was when I left 3 1/2 years ago. Permission is granted to try it out amongst those who love me. Warm hearts are promised as I work out how to be this me--not that me.

I try to believe that. This is the same man that chided me many a time in my growing up years for too high of expectations. I’ve spent a lot of denial on having them at all. Having expectations means the potential of facing disappointment. One of the most painful emotions of all. If I were to work through the “blocked” expectations I would have to admit I had them. Maybe lots of them. For the way things would be. For how I’d be. For how things wouldn’t be. For how I wouldn’t be. Wouldn’t have to be. I’d have to sort them out. Damn.

“The problem,” a best friend writes, “with suppressing this is that this anger turns into depression and it is bloody hard to pull ourselves out of it, to be able to express how we feel and understand what is going on and be able to release it in some way. You have taken great steps to re-adjust to a lifestyle you left long ago, and also the realisation that you are no longer that person who left all that time ago. It can feel suffocating. You have changed, have grown, but now have a feeling of being forced to change again.” Then she throws a rope in too: start writing again. She reminds me how important it is. How much I work through on the page.

I am swimming in a sea of army green file folders. Three boxes and four chock-a-bloc drawers worth. Some things are kept. Cards & printed emails from Scott’s surgery. A few favorite theatre scripts. Some poetry Scott wrote. Photographs and inky prints of Bridger’s feet. Most are tossed. White Costco-sized bag after white bag. Boxes of recycling. The boys gleefully running things through the shredder. Layers and layers of relief washing over me as the receipts and bills and contracts and notes of an old life turn to confetti. “We’re breaking the ties.” Scott explains, when I ask why it feels so good. “We’re cutting loose.”

I sit in my green chair. I sit here a lot these days. Pondering all of this wisdom. What is it I am “cutting loose” from? Why do I so often feel trapped? Suffocated? What is the antidote to all of this anger? I grasp daily for gratefulness and a thankful heart and daily I feel the weight of my failure to hold on to either of these things for very long. Am I a spoiled rotten brat? That actually might be part of it. I do however, feel so acutely the need to “release it in some way.”

Release--excellent word. It goes in and sticks. Deep in that despair place. Release. Like releasing a prisoner. Ah ha. There it is. A little clue. The way out is illuminated a further few steps. The prisoner inside all this anger is me. Releasing the anger is releasing myself.

I posted this on facebook the other day. She talks about her little girl having “the sads” and not being able to let them out. She explains about “emotional throw up” and just letting kids let it out. I thought it was fantastic. For my kids. But here I sit with loads of my own “sads” that need to come out, and the only person not giving me permission to do so is me.

Release, Cori. Release.

Then maybe throw a party and toss all that confetti.

Bonehead moves and the damn key

2012-01-10T15:56:00.000-08:00

“So I made a total bonehead move,” he says the second I answer my phone. “But I’ve already come up with a solution. I just realized I have the key in my pocket.” Yes, you read that right. ‘The’ key. The one key. To the car. The one car. Stupid, I know, but as it was going to cost $100 plus for another key, it just hadn’t made it to the top of the priority list.

He was on his way to San Diego for the week, and not having a car was not an option. I could have killed him. Thankfully we have some of the best friends in the world. Steve arrived with my key about an hour and a half later after having retrieved it from the United Service desk. Bless him.

Fuming and taking deep breaths I tried to let it go and give him the benefit of the doubt. Even though that sort of bonehead move is not an unusual occurrence. He’s an amazing dad and husband, but he can be sort of an airhead.

Unlike me. I’m so responsible and with it that I let the toddler play with the keys at my moms house. Mmm hmm. Not even two days later. What’s that thing that pride goeth before? Damn.

After about 3 hours of searching, one towed car, and $108 to the Honda dealership later we now have three keys to the car.

Oh, why three? Because apparently the toddler put the key in the ONE place we didn't look--under the rug in the den. Sigh.

Houses and neighbors...

2012-01-04T12:04:00.001-08:00

Jeans into dryer. Towels in to washer. Head upstairs and try to ignore the kitchen. Weave my way through various items of ski clothing and leftover Christmas boxes. Pair of jammies on the stairs. Move aside vacuum cleaner and deposit Ash’s clean clothes onto the dresser next to his new potty. Move bag of outgrown clothes to the banister. Put away towels, but first rearrange the closet so that they’ll fit somewhere on the shelves. Discover overturned sippy cup leaking all over clean clothes and Scott’s new magazine on the bed. Hastily put away clothes. Hang magazine over bed rail to dry. Strip sheets. Deposit pile on the landing with other various dirty items collected along the way.

Then go and sit on the stripped bed and close the door. Close the door to the bathroom too--no one wants to see that. But open the door to the closet. Admire the neat rows of hung up clothing. Shirts, sweaters, jackets. The perfectly aligned piles of jeans and sweaters and the containers of socks and belts and scarves and bags all in their own place. It’s a small comfort, but it helps. One room--or one space rather--in this house is tidy. One. But it’s a start, and it does help.

It’s a combo this time. A mixing together of ‘it’s been Christmas vacation and I couldn’t be bothered’ and ‘I just don’t have the capacity to do anything much about it.’ Thankfully it leans more to the Christmas vacation reasoning, but it’s been very much on the other side of things for months if I’m being honest.

My friend Susan talks a lot about our spiritual house. That our hearts and spirits are like houses. Full of rooms. Some comfortable and open and well-used. Some full of old baggage. Some kept shiny-clean for guests. Others kept dark and locked away.

My physical house is a good representation of my spiritual one. Every single room in disarray, but an underlying desire for tidiness and even a brave start on the process. Even if it’s only one relatively little space.

Guilt creeps in. What right do I have to feel so lost and forlorn? To have a spirit in such disarray? I have not lost a husband--as two close friends of mine have. My children are all relatively healthy--unlike another very close friend. I’m not starving or homeless. I have so very much to be thankful for. I try to remind myself with deep breaths and brave encouragement that their stories are not my story. Their nightmares are not my nightmares. Those are not my dragons to fight. I have my own dragons, and they are formidable to me in this moment in this place.

Some of the pain is old. Years-ago stuff laying strewn about in my spirit-rooms with fairly newish items. Some of it simply needing to be sorted and put in its proper place. Other needing to be purged and the area it was left in given a good cleaning and refurbishment.

Much of it is actually from just this year. I have put on such a brave face and tried so hard to be cheerful and flexible, but I grow weary of limbo and confused about my place in the world.

My reflections turn to a wise friend’s recent suggestion that the thing about houses is you’ve got to have neighbors to help you sort things out when they get chaotic and in disarray. I pause to consider this. Can I look beyond the lonely? I can. I locate a very genuine ‘thankful’ for neighbors today. The expected and the unexpected ones. The ones who come out of the woodwork when you’re not really looking. The ones who are always there. The ones that are developing into good friendships.

So. Here I go. Off to sort things. In both houses. They both really need it. Perhaps I’ll even call a neighbor or two...

2012 'Want to' List

2012-01-03T20:41:00.000-08:00

Not ready for resolution quite yet. I hope to get there. For now, I’m starting with what I want. Knowing that I want very much to make the journey from here to there.

I want to read.

I want to dream.

I want to create something beautiful.

I want to write something profound.

I want to clean out the basement.

I want to make new friends. Good friends. Come over right now and drink a bottle of wine (or even tea) and eat copious amounts of chocolates and let’s make right the universe or at least avoid the laundry friends.

I want to not live so far away from my friends who fit the above bill.

I want to catch up on the laundry.

I want to be in shape.

I even want to exercise.

I really, really want to lose 10 pounds.

(The problem is that I also) want to bake chocolate chip cookies and eat most of the batch with the boys before bed then lay in bed giggling and talking until way too late and then sleep in in the morning and make pancakes and stay in our jammies all day and do nothing.

I want to laugh more with my boys.

I want to read them more books.

I want to stop nagging them and fighting them, but I want them to start picking up their clothes and stop picking their noses (for the love) and to get along.

I want to sort out a monthly budget that will eliminate stress and worry and get us halfway to a downpayment by the end of the year.

I want to heal my guts.

I want to embrace healing in my heart.

I want to reconnect with some old friends and be better at staying in touch.

I want to mend some broken relationships.

I want to have the courage to let some relationships go.

I want to teach my boys to do the same.

I want to know how on earth to begin...

the thing is...

I want to figure out how to get up from this damn green chair.

I want to know why it’s so hard to put one foot in front of the other.

I want to know where in the world I lost my passion. My courage. My ability to look life in the eye and get shit done.

I want to not feel so depressed.

What about you? What is it you’re wanting in 2012?

Birthdays and English hospitality

2011-09-20T22:08:00.000-07:00

Hosting people is a favorite. Hosting them in a country they’ve never been to or have only traveled to a time or two? Even better. I wasn’t quite sure what to think when she called. I didn’t really know her. We’d had a conversation at a family gathering or two. One phone conversation when she was in the thick of cancer and politics and life with a sick loved one. So I was surprised when she called and said that it was her birthday, and could she please spend it with us in England. Sure. Absolutely. See you soon.

She arrived the day after we returned from Celle. A near-perfect vacation filled with good food and good people and good scenery and good culture and everything that is so wonderfully Italian. So I was primed to be hospitable.

I wasn’t sure what to expect. Bring wellies I had recommended. She showed up with the world’s largest suitcase. Perhaps that’s a bit of an exaggeration. I’ve got grace--it’s tricky to know what to pack when you’ve never really been somewhere before. (To be fair the same suitcase travelled back a few months later, but with everything she needed for herself plus her two kiddos).

During the days we walked with Kelly and the dogs. Kelly can make anyone feel like an old friend rather than a stranger. We took the kids to school and my friends kissed her cheeks and made her feel at home--they’re good like that. In the evenings we sampled English beer--she’s a big fan and a bit of a connoisseur. We sat on the floor and talked and laughed and cried and discovered that we shared a mutual and somewhat odd and obscure favorite snack of popcorn with salt and brewer’s yeast. We talked. Then talked some more. Then talked and talked and talked a little more.

She came for her birthday. So we gave her the choice of dinner locale--both pubs of course. One to drive to and one to walk to. We gave her a good-natured ribbing at her choice of footwear when she decided on the walk-to pub. Heels seemed a bit of an odd choice for a path through an ancient churchyard and behind the horse pastures and over rocks and mud. She’s appropriately stubborn and strong willed for a survivor. For a widow. For a single mom. So she stuck by her choice. And looked great. And didn’t complain once. And always wore wellies to the pub after that.

It’s funny how a person can go from an acquaintance to close friend in only a week. I no longer disbelieve the possibility, but it still definitely surprises me. A year later, I’m homesick for the hospitality of the English countryside, and for my friend. My good friend. Happy Birthday!

2011-09-07T13:51:00.000-07:00

Today it feels like Fall. Misty-rainy and overcast hoody weather. We traipsed off to school and back without the usual drenched-clothes get-me-to-the-shower-asap feeling as soon as I got home. After my appointment today I ran in for a Starbucks treat and oh so appropriately Pumpkin Spice Lattes made their yearly debut this week. Maybe it seems trifling or silly, but it awoke so many deep emotions in me I had to go to the car and listen to the rain and cry...

Pumpkin Spice Lattes are the Starbucks in Idaho Springs on the way to or the way home from the mountains. Aspens in their full glory in September. Snow scenting the air in October. Crazy roads in November and December. Windshield time and holding hands and life-changing conversations.

Pumpkin Spice Lattes are Scott’s annual Fall Mix. Playing on Saturday mornings and in the car and weaving its way into an anthem for the coming year.

Pumpkin Spice Lattes are Rob gutting pumpkins on our back porch at the condo. Chili in the crockpot and gluten free pumpkin bars in the oven. Everything set up for the annual pumpkin carving extravaganza.

Pumpkin Spice Lattes are Race for the Cure with my sisters. Coming around the bend at Invesco Field and seeing thousands of women ahead and thousands stretched out behind. The pink shirted survivors dotted here and there and the bib on my back commemorating my own mom’s victory over breast cancer.

Pumpkin Spice Lattes are finding out my gran died in the Jardins des Tuileries outside of the Louvre in Paris. A train home to London to discover our car stolen and our house ransacked. A flight to the US alone with two little boys and my sisters meeting me at the airport with just the right treat to cheer me up.

Pumpkin Spice Lattes are rainy London days feeling homesick for Colorado and the Portobello Road Starbucks barista’s indignant exclamation of “Ew! No!” when I asked if they maybe? possibly? carried Pumpkin Spice flavoring in the UK.

Pumpkin Spice Lattes are the Colorado barista who wouldn’t sell Scotty any Pumpkin Spice syrup, but gave him a cup of it for free which he poured into a rubbermaid container and duck-taped close. It made it all the way to London without spilling and made my day!

But this year it was something different. The quintessential ‘Colorado Fall’ thing became an amalgamation of homesickness...a little puddle of sadness and loneliness in the Starbucks parking lot. The grey rain making me positively ache for England. For wellies and romps in the woods with Kelly. For pub walks with the gang. For cups of tea in Loulou’s living room and trips to London with umbrellas in tow. But then there was the crisp weather and pumpkin yumminess making me look very much forward to a Colorado Fall. The kind of Fall I’ve been pining for the last three years. To golden Aspens and hoodies and pumpkin carving and the fall mix. Homesick. For all of it. All because of a Pumpkin Spice Latte.

How about you? What makes you wax nostalgic?

Brunchish medicine

2011-09-03T20:48:00.000-07:00

You know what is absolutely and wholly restorative? To body, mind, and soul?

Brunch.

Brunch is a beautiful thing. Especially when eaten on a small neighborhood-joint patio with mismatched vintage furniture on an spectacular September-in-Colorado day. Especially whilst consuming a fresh squeezed grapefruit mimosa served in a cutie-pie vintage mini milk jug and sipped through a straw. Especially after strolling through a European-ish market searching for just the right table--all by oneself. Especially while friends who love your children nearly as much as you do volunteer to take the lot of them to the zoo. And especially when it follows an hour-long pick-up-where-you-left-off conversation with one’s best girlfriends who live halfway around the world and for whom you positively ache with loneliness.

Brunch. It’s just the thing.

Ahhhhhh...

How about you? What’s been the surprisingly restorative medicine for you recently?

The Sound of Summer

2011-07-29T15:41:00.001-07:00

Flip-flop, flip-flop, flip-flop. $5 at Old Navy and our summer is complete. Flip-flop to the pool. Doing the duck-waddle as they strain to learn how to keep them on their feet. Flip flop home and a complaint that their legs (aka calves) are tired. Flip flops lost whilst peddling hard on their bikes. Flip flops lost running across the grass at the pool. Summer feet protected by squishy rubber flops across the burning pavement.

“If you’re wondering why I’m wearing them inside it’s ‘cause I really like the noise.”

Flip-flop. Flip-flop. “Mama?” he says, “Don’t you just love that sound.” Yes, my sweet boy. I do. That is the sound of summer.

Destination KNOWN!

2011-05-18T09:31:00.000-07:00

Countdown to departure: 11 days.

After many months of “maybe Singapore/maybe Hong Kong no, scratch that! Maybe Singapore/maybe Sydney. Sydney. Singapore. Sydney most likely. No, Singapore most likely. No...where in the heck are we moving?!?!” We finally have our destination! Drumroll please...we’re moving to...DENVER! Yep, it was door number three apparently.

To be honest we’re still in shock. It’s so totally not what we were expecting. Bridger summed up how all of us were feeling quite well. After a fist pump and an excited, “YES!” in response to our location announcement, his face clouded over and he proclaimed “But I wasn’t quite ready to be done with our grand adventure!” We tried to help him see life as the grand adventure. Life lived anywhere in the world. We reminded him about all the adventures to be had in the mountains camping and skiing. About baseball and American schools. About the yummy foods he’s missed and all of the friends and family waiting there. In the end though he cried quite a bit. “Why does the COMPANY get to say where we live? Why can’t we live anywhere in the world that we want to? I love Colorado to visit for a holiday, but I’ve lived there before. I want to try out a new country!” When we asked what country he’d choose if he could live anywhere he wanted he sighed, thought for a moment and exclaimed, “I don’t know. Denmark?”

I sure can relate. I’ve taken a fancy to this world traveling stuff. I struggle with feeling like there’s still SO much here we haven’t seen or done. So much close by in Europe that is so worth exploration and time. Leaving here seems hard on a lot of levels--but the friends we’ll miss and the adventures still left to be had are the two biggies. Somehow it seemed easier--I’m not sure why--to leave and head into another great unknown. Going back to what is more ‘known’ feels like short circuiting the ‘grand adventure.’

At the same time I’m so stoked to go back to Denver too. I’ve started a ‘Top 10 Things I’ll Miss About England” list, but in honor of our move and finally having a destination here are the

“Top Ten Things I’m Looking Forward to About Denver”

(in no particular order)

Buffalo Burger. Red meat in general really. The English specialize more in lamb and pork. Having grown up in the Western United States I had no idea we had it so good when it came to beef. I cannot wait for a really good burger. Mmmm...makes my mouth water!
Country Music. You can take the girl out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the girl. I know I will lose some of your respect with this admission, but boy howdy do I miss me some country tunes!
Mexican Food. Green chilies from the Farmer’s Market frozen and used for Green Chili Stew all winter. Tacos from D' Corazon. Blue corn tortilla chips. Good salsa. Tamales with mole. Lola’s. Chipotle! All of the food my mom cooked growing up I would describe as ‘Mexican Fusion’. I have REALLY missed the Mexican food!
Margaritas. The Brits are really good at beer. I adore PIMMs. But I haven’t had a decent marg for ages. Are you noticing a food-based theme here?
Baseball. Especially the Rockies and the Anderberg boys. We had already decided to spend 5-6 weeks in Denver in June so I had signed my boys up for Little League. I can’t wait to be THAT mom in the stands! Yippee! Plus we’ll be in town with our beloved Rockies. Baseball games at Coors Field or on the couch (perhaps with a hamburger and a margarita thrown in!) I can’t wait!
Good haircuts. My sister is an absolute genius. I have so missed her artistic presence in the hair around here--mine, my husband’s, and my boy’s. I’m going to be cute again!
Date nights! We’ll have babysitters close again! WOOP WOOP! Here in England almost everyone has their parents or family members watch their kiddos. So no one I know knows anyone to pay to do the job. I can’t wait for both the paid and the grandparental types of babysitters. YAY!
The mountains. Not just because I’ll now know which way is west again either. There’s nothing like the Rockies on the horizon. It just makes me feel safe and grounded. It’ll be so good to have them in the distance but even better to get up there as often as we can! Camping anyone? Hiking? Skiing?
My Friends! So many friends to go back to there. I am so looking forward to beers around the backyard firepit.
MY FAMILY! I can’t wait to be near my parents and my sisters again. Lunches. Movie nights. Being able to call my mom when I’m sick. Watching baseball with my dad. Plus I’ve had two cousins and their hubbies move to Denver while we’ve been away. I. Am. Stoked.

So there you have it. We finally ‘know.’ Watch this space as the adventure continues!

The Countdown Begins...

2011-05-16T13:27:00.000-07:00

Countdown to departure: 13 days. Whoa. Could barely drag myself out of bed this morning in spite of the fact that the baby slept through the night. Half of me was super-motivated, “I’m going to blitz the house! Tidy things up, wrap up the organization, and clean one more time before the movers get here next Monday! It’ll be great!” Then I was going to go traipsing about in London and the countryside for the rest of the week. Alas, in spite of working my butt off all day I didn’t even finish the kitchen. Perhaps I should have done what the other half of me wanted and gone back to bed and pulled the covers over my head.

This is hard. I don’t do well with this unknown stuff. It’s so clear I need a lesson in being in the moment. Or...well, I’m getting a lesson. So far I’m pretty sure my grade is a D minus--not an F perhaps, but pretty darned close. I keep living in the moment we arrive. The moment we find a house. The moment I get schools squared away. I live in the moment where we can’t find a good house too. The moment the only school is a crappy one where the teachers are mean and the lunch lady tries to poison the kids. I live in the moment where we end up on the streets. Or worse--a tiny 2 bedroom basement apartment with a leaky ceiling and no heat. Yes, I am a touch dramatic. But dude, the internal monologue is a real doozy these days. Sure, it’s silly--I have a oodles of evidence that the world is a friendly place and that everything will work out swimmingly. The bottom line is that I’m over it. I’m tired. I’ve been cheerful and chilled-out and cool about this whole ‘we’ll get there when we get there and we don’t know where ‘where’ is but it’ll be grand!’ thing. Cheerful and chilled-out is one thing--brave is quite another. My inner-control freak is freaking out.

Scott asked me today what would be gained by knowing. What would it change if I knew? If I knew where we would live. If I knew where the boys would be going to school. If I knew...how would things be different right now? How would I be planning or acting or what would I be doing differently? After I told him I sort of wanted to punch him in the face I considered what he said. I don’t know...I’d stop obsessing I guess. I’d stop worrying. I’d work on plans for the one scenario instead of making wildly obsessive plans about the 784 fabricated scenarios running through my head. I’m sure knowing would make me stop obsessing. Right? Right? Don’t you think? Come on, back me up here.

Bridger came in a little bit ago--still up nearly two hours after he went to bed. “Mom? My brain is too full. I can’t shut my mind off.” Poor kid. I have no idea where he gets it.

Boys

2011-04-23T05:12:00.000-07:00

Sometimes my sons make me feel crazy. We’ve had a bit of attitude going on at our house. Is there anything more hateful than the small person you birthed and whose bum you wiped and puke you caught in your own bare hands rolling their eyes at you?!?! I ask you? What’s a mother to do. It tempts one to smack them and I am not that kind of mom!

Today I came downstairs after my shower to a sobbing Bridger. I have this red chair, see. It’s my favorite ‘thing.’ I own lots of stuff and am not particularly attached to any of it, but this piece of stuff has rank. In a discussion of what to sell, give away, or move on to our next destination the one thing that always makes the ‘it goes where I go’ list is my red cowboy chair. I bought it out of a girl’s garage a few years ago. Found some fabulous red pleather and some cherry-red paint and had my favorite furniture gurus in Denver make it over. It is a fabulous piece of furniture, and today my son wrecked it. Well, not really. It’s not wrecked. He just picked a bunch of paint off of the arm of the chair. There was a tiny bit pealing up and he did what any self-respecting eight year old would do. He started picking and pulling and messing with it. I can’t blame him. It does not make him a horrible person. I once pulled the brail sticker off the inside of an elevator because it was pulling away and I couldn’t resist peeling it off. That, I’m pretty sure makes you a horrible person. But a little paint off a chair? Even if it’s your mother’s favorite ‘thing’? It just makes you a point of frustration. Even that I didn’t let out in front of him. He was genuinely heart broken and sorry. So, I couldn’t be angry. Just really bummed. Then even more bummed when about two seconds later I found one of my vintage turquoise bracelets had been bent and mangled by the other son who ‘wanted to see how it worked.’

What with the recent snotting and eye-booger sickness, the demanding (as in I want it not now, RIGHT NOW) breastfeeding, the eye rolling, the constant bickering, and the el destructo boyness in general--between you and me I dream of weeks away from my children. Still sometimes, they do or say or be something that simply melts me, and I am able to regroup and not smack them and even love them an extra lot. Caid has lost his two front teeth and the lisping and toothless grin are so stinkin’ cute I can’t stand it. Asher has started giving the most spectacular hugs. Just wraps his little arms around you and presses his little head against you and mmmmm...it’s so nice! Then there was the conversation around the dinner table the other night. One of those moments that reminded me that these little beings around my table are from some other place. Full of a life and light that is a gift to me and blesses me constantly.

Bridger started a conversation a few nights ago with “Dad? If you could raise money for something, what would you raise it for?” Neither one of us were certain what he meant. So we asked him what he would raise it for. “A baseball field. I’d build one for kids who don’t get to play baseball. Maybe in Ubie’s [Ubaldo Jimenez--his favorite pitcher from the Dominican Republic] country.” He then proceeded to line out all that he would do to accomplish this. Find a field. Ask the local people whether we should do it in a meadow or cut down some jungle. Ask what sort of field they would want. Decide how much it would cost. Not forget to include equipment like balls and bats and helmets. “Do you think they would want uniforms?”

Then he talked about how he’d write to schools and see if other kids would want to help him raise the money for the fields. “I think kids in England and America would want to help.” He went on and on. Outlining different components of a very well thought-out plan with passion and clarity and excitment.

He may be hard on my furniture, but I wouldn’t trade him for the world.

Laundry Therapy

2011-03-25T04:03:00.001-07:00

Take the reds out of the washer and put the whites in. Lots of scrubbing before hand, after all these are the boys school shirts and karate gi’s. Hang the reds on the line in the still misty morning as the sun begins to rise and burn off the fog. Walk the boys to school. A little extra chatting on the way home. Nurse the baby and put him down for a nap. Laugh as he dances to the song his Fisher Price Aquarium plays. Pull the whites out and revel in the sunshine as the mass of wet, wadded up laundry becomes tidy rows on the line. Shake it out. Put it up. Breathe deeply. This task, this day, is my therapy. A respite from the myriad of unknowns. Chaos to order. Sunshine and lovely smelling laundry. Two giant English bumblebees nearly the size of my thumb buzzing their working song and encouraging me not to start obsessing or panic.

Things feel a wee bit chaotic in my life right now. We make a major international move in eight weeks, but still don’t know where to. A simple task like brushing my teeth turns into, “Hmmmmm...if we only get the 500 lbs of shipped goods it doesn’t make much sense to bring the towels. Funny though, I love these towels. Bought them to match the downstairs bathroom at the old house. Should I give them away? Do you give away towels? Throw them out? I know they’re just towels, but...Oh and that ceramic dish, can’t see shipping that. Then again the boys gave me that for Mother’s Day a 3 years ago. It’d be a shame to get rid of it. Baskets? Are they worth shipping? Of course if they decide to ship a container then maybe I will go ahead and bring the towels and the dish. But then again...Oh Cori, stop! You don’t know anything yet so stop thinking about it!”

The good news is, it’ll all be decided and sorted in 8 weeks. In the meantime, I’m searching for schools and filling out school applications and trying to tell by a website if my children will be happy there and get a good education. I’m looking at houses and apartments in Sydney and Singapore and trying to picture us there. The Sydney ones have big back yards. How fun would that be? We could get a dog. A swingset for Ash. Then again that’s a lot of mowing and I hear there are very big spiders. The Singapore apartments all have pools. Oooo...fun! We could get in every day after school. Then again there’s balconies. Is there any way at all to convince Master Climber Middle Son to stay off of the railings? I try not to imagine him plummeting to his death. There are at least variations of the seasons in Sydney--it’s so stinking hot in Singapore. But the boys would be in such a good school (if they could get a place) in Singapore. I start to go round and round and round in my head. Then I take a deep breath and remember that it always works out eventually. If it hasn’t worked out, it’s not eventually yet.

I finally found some tears about it all today. I knew they were there. Lurking. Hiding out behind getting ready for trips and going on outings with my mom. But I knew they were there. Waiting to burst out when I could stop long enough to let them. Maybe it was the slow, steady rhythm of the washing going up on the line. Or the relief of the sunshine after months of grey. Maybe it was that my mom left, and I’ll really miss her. The lingering chatty-girlfriend time on the way home from school. I don’t know for sure. They just burst out. Finally. I just started sobbing at my kitchen table. Sobbing about how frustrating it is to have so much up in the air. Sobbing about how much work it is to try to figure it all out. I sobbed about England. About the daffodils and bluebells and woods and lambs in the fields and the crazy gorgeous English countryside. The castles nearby and the fantastic London so close. Bodiam Castle and Hever Castle and Borough Market and Peter Pan Park and Portobello Road. But mostly I sobbed about my friends. About how much I love them and how sad I am to leave them. About how pleasant it is to walk to school every morning and chat and figure out how the world ought to run and bemoan the fact that no one asks us to do it and about how much I’ll miss that. Curry nights and girlfriend days and hugs and laughs and all of it. I finally have begun to acknowledge that this season really is coming to a close. It’s been so fantastic in so many ways, and I’m so sad to see it go.

I think I’ll just let myself cry a lot these next few weeks if I need to. In some ways it’s like the laundry. You sort out the memories and hang them on the line. Fold them up and tuck them away.

I sure wish I could bring the people with me, all my lovely friends. I’ll have to make due with the memories I suppose, and do my best to keep in touch.

of squonchiness and other adventures...

2011-02-22T15:39:00.000-08:00

We took a wellie walk on Saturday. Easily one of my top 5 favorite things about England. As we were walking along in the mud and mist B said to me, "I love to walk when it's like this, don't you Mama? I love the squonchiness." When I asked what he meant he said, "You know. The noise our boots make in the sucky, squonchy, squelch-squirchy mud." What more explanation does one need than that?

C peaking out of the oldest tree in England.
Believed to be 4000 years old.

B & C inside the hollowed-out tree.
Queen Victoria herself is said to have taken tea inside this tree.
They found a cannonball from the English civil war embedded in the tree when they hollowed it out.

Snow Drops. One of my favorite things about England in February.

Trails go right through farmer's fields here. You climb a style and go through the field. These sheep came running up to us. B was not thrilled. The rest of us thought they looked very jolly and friendly!

Very tiny crocus. Right before C squashed them (accidentally) with his wellies.

St George's, Crowhurst

Sleep drunk after his nap in the Ergo.

The village sign. I love this about English villages.

Going commando on Mufti Day

2011-02-18T08:28:00.000-08:00

My big boys go to the local village school and like most English children wear uniforms to school. I have to say I am a big fan of the uniform gig. So simple--they get up and put on grey trousers, a white polo, their school-logo ‘jumper’ (read: sweatshirt for my American friends), and their black shoes. Some schools even have school-logo jackets and book bags. It’s a great equalizer and it’s easier on my laundry and my nerves since despite my best efforts my boys prefer their clothes ragged and filthy.

Today however was ‘Super Hero Day’ at school. Every once in a while the school council will decide they want to raise money for a charity and they sponsor a ‘Mufti Day.‘ Last time this happened I asked every single one of my English friends what in the world “Mufti” stood for and none of them had any idea. The responses were all along the lines of “You know, MUFTI. It means the kids pay a pound and get to wear whatever they want. A MUFTI Day.” This was about as helpful as answering that cheese tastes, you know, cheesy when asked to describe its flavor. No fear! I looked it up on the faithful Wikipedia! Phew. According to wiki it’s derived from Arabic and was originally adopted by the British Army in the early 1800’s to describe some robes that the army fellas wore when they weren’t wearing uniforms. Which works well for today. Because B went in his bathrobe to school today (read: dressing gown for my English friends). He was a Jedi. Jedi (Jedies? what is the plural form of ‘Jedi’?) wear bathrobes apparently. Our friend Mark P. wondered if he was perhaps the incredible sleeping man. B just showed him the lightsaber slung under his robe and gave Mark an incredulous look. Apparently B got a lot of questions about the robe today which really surprised him. “It’s the closest I could come to a Jedi cloak!” Scott suggested perhaps he was Obi Wan before his first cup of coffee.

C went as a ninja. Of course. Several months ago he took Scott aside and let him know the news, “Dad, I have something to tell you. I should have told you a long time ago. I...am a ninja.” He dresses ninja-style a lot. Scott taught him how. Apparently he and his best bud used to dress this way quite often when they were junior highish age, sneak out of their respective houses, and run around in the dark. Cue my mother instinct freaking out and praying that none of my three choose to follow in their father’s footsteps. I know. Dream on, right? The outfit consists all of navy or black clothes. Today it was: navy blue trousers, black tshirt and sweatshirt worn inside out to hide the logos, with a navy blue capillene tshirt worn as a mask over his face and black socks with finger holes cut out for gloves. Oh, and a Samari sword tucked down the back of the sweatshirt. Gotta have the appropriate weapon at all times.

I love C’s love for transforming into other characters--he wears his knight cloak and carries his sword when we visit castles and really wanted to wear torn jeans and eye makeup to the school disco last week so he would look like a rock star. He has an uncanny ability to fashion costumes out of any available items. He’s been known to be an African 'King of the Wild' (B’s lion hoody towel with a belt, bow and arrow, and sword), a Native American chief (belt, washcloth loincloth and rope around his head), and my personal favorite was the outfit that he fashioned from Scott’s brown scarf--and nothing else. The tying job was amazing on that one.

Last weekend C came down in what he wanted to wear for Super Hero Day. He was bare chested in black trousers, a black belt slung diagonal across his chest and a black bandana tied rambo style on his head. He did NOT agree that they most likely would not allow him to go bare chested to school. So understandably I sent Scott in to approve the costumes as they were being laid out last night. This is the conversation I overheard from the other room:

Scott: Under no circumstances am I letting you wear underwear on your head to school.

C: But DAD! It’s part of the mask! See, I look out of this little slit! It looks cool!

Scott: No. It looks like underwear on your head.

C: But it helps keep the other part on. It’s part of the mask.

Scott: It doesn’t look like a mask. It looks like you have underwear on your head.

C: Ah, I don’t care!

Scott: Under no circumstances am I letting you wear underwear on your head to school.

The hilarious thing is this argument juxtaposed with one a couple of years ago. I was standing in his room where Scott overheard me say: C, you MUST wear underwear to school.

C: But MOM!! I hate wearing underwear!

Me: I know sweetheart, but you change in your classroom with everyone there so you have to have on underwear!

C: I don’t mind!

Me: I know you don’t, but those are your private parts and you need to keep them private. It’s not polite to show them to everyone when you change.

C: But do I have to wear them at night?

Me: Nope. You can take them off as soon as you get home.

C: The weekend?

Me: Nope. You can go without on the weekend.

We visited Dover Castle one time and B was shocked that one of the WWII soldiers would announce to the world that he wasn’t wearing underwear. What do you mean, B? I asked. Look right there, Mama. It says “Commando.” He’s not wearing any underwear like C. It was one of those parenting moments where in spite of your best intentions to keep a straight face you are in fact doubled over with laughter.

Ah those boys. They’re good for a lot of laughs. We love C’s creative license when it comes to dressing, but are quite thankful that when it comes to school apart from those pesky Mufti Days there’s no question about what he’s wearing.

Potentially...

2011-02-14T03:53:00.000-08:00

How do we do when faced with uncertainty? My sons are an interesting case study. One of my sons worries a lot. He plays through every worst case scenario in his head. Asking a lot of questions no one has answers to and hunting down guarantees. He’s sure it’s not going to work out and as a result, he decides he doesn’t want to do whatever it is he’s uncertain about. Usually I gently make him do it anyway. Suggest he tell himself some different stories. Try very hard not to say anything remotely resembling ‘I told you so’ when he actually quite enjoys whatever uncertain thing he has finally decided to embrace.

One of my sons just barrels ahead. Plunges in. Tries to figure out how the thing works, what it’s all about, checking it out from multiple angles. He’s not sure about ‘it’, but he’s sure about himself. Once when he was two he climbed nimbly up the outside of a banister of stairs. Clinging on to the top railings he looked confidently over at me and yelled, “Mom! Is this wise?” He can handle whatever comes along so he blasts through the uncertainty. Sometimes it means he doesn’t think about or take in certain crucial issues or features. Most of the time he doesn’t let it bother him. I try to help him with critical thinking and learning from his mistakes.

My other son is a baby. Uncertainty is his MO. He doesn’t know much about the world around him, or how things work, or even how he ought to relate to it so he just tries it all out. Confident the world is a kind place and someone will rescue him if he’s gone too far. Eager to learn about every nook and cranny. Excited to test and perfect each new skill. Today he stood up for a few seconds on his own. He didn’t know he could do that. What a rapturous look on his face when he discovered he could!

Uncertainty. Much of our lives is uncertain. After losing two men in our circle in the ‘too young to die’ category within a year I’m quite sure that none of us has any idea how many days we are allotted on this earth. After having many friends lose jobs and watching the painstaking process of finding new jobs I think that it’s unwise to be over-certain of our financial standing. A stint in England will sure drive home the point that we can never know what the weather will do. From the simple to the profound we just don’t know what life will hold.

We can plan for this uncertainty to a certain extent. Plan for the ‘just in cases.’ Life insurance policies. Emergency savings funds (Scott and I have started saving for one of these). We can bring umbrellas, but mostly...life isn’t very certain.

I’m not a gal who has ever done very well with this reality. I like to know stuff. I have trouble relaxing if I don’t know. Scott and I discovered this fact on a backpacking trip through Europe. He wanted an adventure to the tune of never making plans, never having any idea what we’d do or where we’d go until we were doing it or going there. I thought this sounded romantic and exciting. We learned the hard way though that I could be adventurous to a point. I needed to know fairly early in the day that I had a place to lay my head that night, and I needed to know exactly where that was going to be. Given that knowledge I could let the whole day go--follow where the wind led. But not the nights. I was afraid of the uncertainty of having nowhere to sleep. It terrified me and led to entire days lost with obsessing and worrying (I wonder where my son gets it).

It’s mid-February. Three and a half months until we have to be moved out of this house. Things are still up in the air. Uncertain. I know that we will be in the US for the month of June. We’ll stay with my parents and Scott’s parents and friends along the way. We’ll take in the mountains and some baseball and hopefully some fireworks on the 4th of July. And then...and then I don’t know. The timing and location of the position Scott has been asked to fill is being looked at a bit more strategically. The stuff they were certain about are now uncertain after a deeper look. The country we would live in is in question and new things have come to the surface that need to be looked at. Maybe they would want us to stay here for a bit longer. Maybe. Possibly. Potentially.

Ah...there it is. The lifeline. The paradigm shift. Over the years I’ve learned to let things some things go. I’ve worked towards a more calm demeanor and chosen to obsess less. I may never have the ‘plunge right in’ attitude of my son, but I don’t run through the worst case scenarios over and over in my head. Well, not as often anyway. However, ‘uncertainty’ is a fearful word for me. I try so hard, but I need a new word. Potentially. Potential. I like that. There’s a good potential we’ll be in Asia. There’s a potential we’ll be here. There’s a potential we’ll return to the States. Potential. Potential. Potential. I still don’t know. There’s still no plan. But inside of ‘uncertainty’ I worry. Inside of ‘potential’ I dream. I explore. There are possibilities instead of unknowns. There is light instead of darkness. Inside of potential a person can realize they are able to stand on their own two feet where before they always needed something to hold on to--and enjoy the rapturous excitement that offers. I still feel a bit afraid, but inside of ‘potential’ it feels easier to be brave.

Three and a half months. Three and a half months until a massive change. To where or to what I don’t know--I’m not certain. But I’m going to choose to relish in the potential.

Cure for the Monday blues

2011-01-24T13:23:00.001-08:00

Oh my Monday. Stay-at-home moms may not exactly do what others might consider ‘returning to work’ on Mondays, but dude we have Mondays too. Big time. I had a doozy. A tell your child to do something a zillion times Monday. A baby didn’t sleep all night the night before Monday. An I had a great lunch-date with a girlfriend but in the 25 short minutes it takes to pick the boys up from school I had already worked so hard to stay calm and sweet and not rip their fingernails off that I felt like shutting myself in my bedroom Monday. A texting my husband at 6:55 PM and saying “please come rescue me” then walking out the door at 7:15 PM saying “I may not be back” sort of Monday. The laundry pile has taken over the kitchen. The bathroom smells like an outhouse. I don’t have any clean underwear, and I couldn’t figure out what to give the baby who was hugging my leg screaming for dinner sort of Monday.

Luckily there’s a cure:

Take 50 or so women of all different shapes and sizes, ages and abilities and place them in a church or a school hall, add a couple of cutie-pie hip hop divas and turn up the music very loud. Zumba is absolutely, hands down one of the most surprisingly fun additions to my life in 2010. I plan to do a lot more of it in 2011. Especially because it’s the only cure I know for THAT kind of Monday.

We all gather around 7:30 at the school. Moms from the playground and the checkout from the grocery store and the rest. There’s thin ones. Fat ones. Young whippersnapperish teenager ones who bare their midrifs and older greying grandmotherish ones in cute matching sweat suits. There’s women in fantastic shape and women with a little extra squish around their middles. The teachers gather us up and work their magic and somehow no matter how bad you are at that arms-above-your-head swirling twisting thing or how difficult that crazy ‘pony step’ seems they make us all feel like sexy latin dancers anyway. I can tell. Because the women have started putting flowers in their hair. No lie. Big bright ones on their pony tail holders and hair clips. Several of them having started wearing sequin-sparkly tank tops with their leggings too. Why have a workout when you can have a dance party with all your girlfriends! And we do bring our friends. Women were there tonight with daughters and sisters and mothers. We gather up and for 45 minutes straight we laugh and shimmy and boogy, and I love it. I leave there in 100% better mood every time. I feel girly and sexy and like I had a heck of a workout. It’s the only ‘exercise’ I’ve ever done that makes me think “Oh no! It’s over? Come on! Just a few more minutes!” Can’t beat that for a Monday for sure!

Stuff and Things...plus a little announcement

2011-01-23T15:05:00.000-08:00

When we put our house on the market before we moved to England I got rid of SO much stuff. Boxes and boxes. Truckloads actually. I freecycled and craigslisted and donated my way through every closet and every nook and cranny of the house and garage. I got rid of so much stuff that I remember a friend who came through one of our open houses saying, “Where is all your stuff?!?!” I was proud in that moment. I thought of myself as quite the little organizer.

Then we got ready to move. Again I purged. Three more huge loads went to the Veterans. A huge load went to the dump. I sorted the stuff we were keeping into two piles--stuff to store and stuff to ship. We shipped what felt like not very much to England and the rest we brought via Uhaul to store up in Montana. I thought I was so meticulous. I figured I got rid of nearly everything except the bare essentials. Then we lived in a house for nearly 3 months with none of it (it took forever to arrive via freight) and by the time it showed up I again purged boxes and boxes and boxes of stuff and still sometimes come across things where I wonder, “Why did I bring this again?” I cringe to think of what landed in Montana. Except for a couple of pieces of furniture and a few boxes of memorabilia I cannot imagine I will ever need or want any of that stuff again!

International moving and living has been a great exercise in paring down. Paring down expectations. Paring down what I view as ‘essential.’ It even pares down relationship clutter to a large extent because only the really essential folks keep in touch. It’s de-cluttering on a practical, emotional, and spiritual level.

Take the house size for example. I was used to almost a 1/4 acre lot. A huge playroom. Guest room. Large office. Big pantry. Huge garage. Extra freezer. Multiple bathrooms. Plus--and this is the part that blows my mind--a CLOSET IN EVERY ROOM. My goodness I had it good!! Our current house is tiny compared to that. I have (no lie) one closet in this entire house. Plus this funny little nook that passes for a sort of cupboard. My fridge is barely bigger than the one I had in my college dorm room. A car could not fit in our garage because it’s not big enough (though I am so thankful for the storage it provides!). The three bedrooms we have are significantly smaller and we only have one bathroom. Funny side note: Caid regularly drew pictures for a while of ‘really big houses.‘ When asked to describe what made them ‘really big‘--lots of rooms? on a lot of land?--he replied that they had THREE bathrooms!

to help illustrate the point:
my very tiny English fridge & freezer

Caid and our friends Marnie and Joel in our current backyard

Our backyard in Colorado

What is it with stuff? Why do we need it? Want it? Keep buying so much of it? Keep keeping so much of it? It just makes for a lot of work! I asked the boys recently what in the world we were going to do to get them to keep their drawers a little neater. They kept coming down looking like they’d slept in what I knew were clean t-shirts and I was a little annoyed. Caid’s reply? “We should just get rid of most of our t-shirts mom. If we didn’t have so many they’d go in the drawer nicer.” Out of the mouths of babes. Pretty smart. Bridger had a similar answer to a recent “YOU HAVE TOYS EVERYWHERE!!!” blow-up (fellow moms--you know the one). “You know Mama,” he said. “We really only play with like two of our games, the animals, and our swords. Maybe we should just give the rest away.” Wise. Very wise.

As an expat Mama I struggle with that though, and maybe lots of other parents do too no matter where they’re living. For me, I feel like they’re missing out. I know there are many amazing tradeoffs, but in leaving America they had to give up their playroom and their big yard and their swingset and they didn’t get to bring so many of their toys and books and things. Maybe that’s just ridiculous. Maybe the paring down was just exactly what we needed. Maybe, just maybe, it was actually liberating.

I’m paring down again. I got a pretty good start this evening. In a little under an hour I filled an entire laundry basket in the boys’ room and stacked a ton of stuff from the bathroom on top. We were purging in order to move Asher in with the big boys. It shocked me really. What has always seemed like a tiny little room now quite comfortably holds all three boys and a decent amount of their stuff. Afterwards when we all went around the table and said what we were thankful for at dinner Caid said, “getting our room organized.” Bridger mentioned later how he thought if Asher could wake up in the night and see that he and Caid were both sleeping he might get a better idea of what he’s supposed to be doing and go back to sleep. (I sure hope that’s true)!

If we lived Stateside I’m quite sure the boys would be in their own rooms. We might have even upgraded to a bigger house in order to assure that. Someday I hope they can have their own rooms, but this life though has lent itself very naturally to a different set of values. To a more tribal feel. We’re a tribe. We look out for each other. We live in closer proximity with less stuff. So when neither Scott’s office nor the master bedroom seemed like a good place for Ash, the big boys seemed to agree that their room was probably the best place. They wanted to look after him and didn’t protest the loss of space at all.

No matter how they’ve come by it, I sure am glad they have that ‘looking out for each other’ mentality because more big change is on the horizon. Dear readers, I have a little announcement to make. Our lease is up at the end May. That’s only four months. After much discussing and waiting and thinking through it’s looking like the next big thing will be a move to East Asia. We’re stoked for the new adventure and are anxious for things to be a little more firmly set--watch this space. Should know more details very soon. We do now know though that regardless of the ‘where’ another big move is coming. Again. Whoa.

It’s bringing up all kinds of things for me. Purging and organizing are occupying a lot of my thoughts (though I’m trying very hard not to obsess). I keep looking at things and thinking, “do I really want to move this?” It’s also causing a lot of reflection. Thinking about our last move from Denver to England. Thinking through all the changes that move has brought about. How many things I’ve gotten rid of--both the physical and emotional ‘stuff.’ How it’s brought new stuff--new friendships and new recipes and new favorite places and also new actual now-I-have-to-decide-whether-it’s-worth-keeping ‘stuff’. It’s shaped what’s important to me. It’s lent perspective and brought order. It’s brought us together as a tribe.

Maybe the houses will be bigger where we’re going. Maybe they won’t. I bet we’ll need some different stuff there than we’ve needed here. Just like our American life needed different stuff than our English one. More paring down will take place. I’ll sort things into piles. Some relationships will deepen. Others will fall away. We’ll struggle as we adapt and learn to live in a new place with new types of houses and new types of people and new climates and new lots of things. We’ll be lonesome and we’ll make new friends. We’ll bond and pull together as a family. I’ll get to reconnect with the stuff that’s really, truly important to me.

Plus hopefully this time the pile of “holy cow why did I ship this?!?!” will be much, much smaller.

New Years

2011-01-19T12:39:00.001-08:00

My skin is brown. My waist band expanded. The mountain of laundry smelling of slightly sour sea water has been slowly and steadily shrinking and I’m no longer sweeping up small deposits of sand that stick to the bottoms of my feet and make me smile. I just finally unpacked the last two suitcases. We spent a week in Mexico and a week in Colorado. It was a great trip, and we’re home now.

I ate my weight in Mexican food while we were away. Happily consuming plate after all inclusive plate of chips with guacamole and pico de gallo. Taquitos. Tacos. Tostados. Plus muchos muchos margaritas. Mmmmmmm...I can hardly figure out how to go through my day without Mexican food. Even in Colorado I ate some form of it every single day. These poor Brits. They don’t know what they’re missing. How in the world can Doritos be the only brand of plain corn chips in this country? Where can one buy a decent jar of real salsa (not nasty gringo wannabe salsa!). It’s just not right!

It’s always fun to return home to Colorado. It highlights things I miss. Like really powerful laundry stain treatment spray. Washing machines that do a hefty load in less than half a day. Target. Oh how I miss Target. One store for everything a girl could need. I miss sliced turkey for sandwiches. Lots of yummy gluten free and dairy free options that don’t taste like sacrificing. Chipotle. Guacamole. Good tequila. Blue corn chips. Friendly customer service. It always highlights the people I miss. Picking up where I left off with my sisters and my mom and dad and our old church and Meggs and others. So fun, but makes for an aching heart when we leave again. I’m missing so much of their lives! They’re missing so much of mine and my boys.

Being there highlights what I love so much about England though too and about being away. Flowers everywhere no matter the time of year. A cuppa at a friend’s table or sitting on their couch. Wellie walks. Pub dinners. The woods. Village life. Curry nights. My friends. The way we’ve come together as a family and how Scott and I have gelled as a couple. It’s a sweet life, and I am so thankful for it. Even if there isn’t any good Mexican food.

I feel in that processy-thinky place that sometimes happens around New Years. I know it’s halfway through January already, but we were so busy and traveling and so I’m only just now getting to the real meat of what I want for this year. It feels good to take my time with it a bit.

It’s going to be a big year. I can feel it. Change looms on the not-very-distant horizon. Our lease will be up this spring and there are rumblings of moves to further reaches of the globe. I’m trying to just enjoy the adventure. Not count chickens. Relax and let all of that unfold. (I know, who am I kidding right? But seriously. I’m not obsessing. Yet. This is progress people. Go with it.)

I’ve never been big on resolutions. So much can change and happen in a year. This year I’m enjoying thinking more along the lines of what I want, not what my goals are. What would I like to look back and have accomplished this time in 2012? What do I want to change? So, I have two main things I want to accomplish this year. They both feel really big to me, and yet totally doable.

I want to get our finances under our control (so far they’ve always controlled us), and I’d like to get in shape. I’ve learned that goals are better if they’re specific and measurable. I’ve also learned that sometimes one needs a bit of help. After several of you suggested Dave Ramsey we took the plunge. In terms of our finances, I want to have completed the Financial Peace University series and have accomplished the first three baby steps (more on that later) by the end of the summer. This will include making and sticking to a budget on a regular and ongoing basis. Which is a totally foreign tool in this house, but one that I feel quite confident we can master! The other one I haven’t decided on any specific measurables for yet. I’m working on that. I’ll keep you posted. I do know there’s a cute pair of pre-baby jeans that I’d like to fit into sometime in the near future.

So that’s the scoop. Been a while since I caught up with you all. I’m slowly putting my house back in order. Adjusting to jetlag. Detoxing from all-inclusive binging and pondering. Lots of pondering.

How about you. What do you want for 2011?

Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow...

2010-12-09T14:23:00.000-08:00

We hit the jackpot last week. Another snow storm in England. My friends were quick to point out that until we moved here they hadn’t had snow in years and years. I told them the story of standing in my garage three summers ago with two piles. One pile was headed to storage and the other pile to England. B was incensed when he found the sleds in the ‘wrong’ pile. I gently explained we wouldn’t need them in England, so we were leaving them behind. “It doesn’t snow in England?!?!?” he said. “Then I’m not going!” I didn’t really blame him. We’d had a similar conversation about baseball the week before. Why in the world would we move to a place without baseball and snow? He couldn’t figure it out. I wasn’t sure even I knew the answer at the time.

B with what we have discovered makes
an excellent makeshift sled--an old real estate sign

So here we are in England. We’ve lived here two years and four months and we’ve had three major snow storms. Each time it happens everyone says is the worst in 30-50 years. I like to think of myself as the snow fairy, but really it’s B. Last year we had the most beautiful white Christmas. No one could believe it. He’d been predicting it for a couple of days. Said he could smell it in the air. Everyone just smiled a bit patronizingly and patted him on the head. I was indeed one of the unbelievers. I was so worried he’d have a broken heart. I just couldn’t bring myself to encourage his hope. When it finally did snow we all wondered if he had some kind of magic snow juju. This year that fact was confirmed. He gives all the credit to Santa. Last year he asked and received. This year he wrote it in all caps on his list to Santa a few weeks ago. He even added ‘(please)’ after it. Yesterday I was looking at his list and I noticed he’d crossed it out and replaced the please with ‘thanks!’ So sweet.

We got three good days of sledding in. Built a giant snow man. C dug himself a snow cave. The boys even got to miss 3 days of school. It was so fun! It feels so good to me. To look out my windows and see snow. Snow on the backyard and in the fields. These poor Brits are cranky now though, and I can’t really blame them. There are no services. No one clears their sidewalks--no one has snow shovels to do so! The roads don’t really get cleared or sometimes even gritted. No one has a clue how to drive on this stuff so driving is sketchy. There is black ice everywhere and a lot of people have fallen or have tales of helping someone who has.

Caid in his snow cave.
He happily worked away on this for hours.

It’s supposed to snow again this coming week, and I am stoked. Don’t tell my neighbors. My only complaint in all of this is that we still don’t have a sled! Maybe I need to ask B to put the request in to Santa.

A few more pics from the storm:

The snowman (they have their school clothes on under their snow pants.)

A's first snow! An epic moment for an Anderberg!

After school snow fight.

Let's Talk About Sex...

2010-12-01T12:23:00.000-08:00

I had a list, when I became a parent. I'm sure many of us did. You know the one. The "I'll Never Do It Like My Parent's Did It" list:

-I'll never wear sweatpants to drop my kids off at school.
-I'll never make healthy food for dinner when my kids have friends over.
-I'll never make my kids go to bed at a reasonable hour on a Friday night.

Things like that.

It's one of my favorite things to do and has become a regular 10 minute break with the boys every few days to watch movie trailers. We go to apple and check out the latest releases. Actually, we usually watch the same old trailers over and over until we have them memorized and can act them out. Even if we never plan to attend the movie itself. I stick to the kid ones, but sometimes an adult one will catch our eye and occasionally I'll risk it. The boys are used to me saying no about certain ones. "Too much adult humor mom?" Up until recently I've generally assumed that most of the innuendo, etc. that they do occasionally encounter goes straight over their head. Apparently not so much.

The other day we were watching one that ended up having too much 'adult humor'. So I kind of sucked air when B asked me a few minutes later, "Mom? What's 'sacs'?" I did what any evolved and totally confident mother would do. I said, "You know, B. Like a sack that you put things in. Grocery sacks. That kind of thing. I think that's what he meant."

But in the car with Aunt Noey the other day we were all totally trapped. A conversation about her potentially getting a girl dog led to questions about why said girl dog and Arthur would make better siblings than mates because they couldn't have babies. B wanted to know why.

"Oh, he's fixed."

"What's 'fixed'?"

"It means he's had an operation so he can't have babies."

"How do they do that?"

"Weeeeeellllll..."

We reminded him about the book we read about sperm and eggs and told him that Arthur wasn't able to make sperm. I thought about avoiding it again, but I was very brave. I took a deep breath and dived right in. Penises, wombs, ovaries, fallopian tubes. Your basic biology. Done. Sorted. That wasn't so bad. On to other topics! But then B wanted to know, "Yeah, but HOW does that happen?" I totally pulled the 'you'll understand better when you get older' card. To which C replied, "Dad, we should ask your friend Peter. The one you told us to ask about the shapes of our souls? He probably knows!"

Busted. I said, "Well, I KNOW. I just think it's something that you'll understand better when you're a little older." And then Scott tried to explain that it's not that it's some big mystery, but... and Noey and I and Scott all kept saying, "well, um...see...um..." Anyway, by the end of the conversation I could at least say it was over. I told him he could always talk to us about sex. Whenever he wanted. Noey pulled a very cool Aunt move and told him since it was sometimes embarrassing to talk to your parents about sex they could always ask her anything too.

My parents took regular 'giggle breaks' whenever we had to talk about sex. We were always allowed to giggle since it was embarrassing. I'm finding a lot of these types of things lately. The types of things where I kind of 'get it', for the first time and I think that how my parents did it maybe wasn't so bad after all.

Remembrance Sunday

2010-11-15T23:48:00.000-08:00

The village green fills with people. It’s raining and the saturated grass has turned to mud. But we all stand out in it. The Warlingham flute band leads the parade, followed by students from the boy’s local village school, a few men in uniform including our friend Mark, and the Cub Scout color guard. The Vicar leads us all in a hymn. The poppy wreaths are placed on the memorial in the center of the green. There is a moment of silence. We listen as the names of each young man from this village who died in the Great War and in World War II are read. I cry and hug my boys tight to me—especially when 2 and sometimes 3 boys with the same surname are read aloud. Brothers in arms, now gone. Then there are prayers for peace. For unity. For those who fight. For their families left behind. For the innocent victims of war. For the leaders who make the decisions to send or not send us into war. Each of us breathes an 'amen' at the end of each new prayer. We recite the Lord’s Prayer. We stand in the rain and sing another hymn. Then ‘God Save the Queen.’ I don’t know the words so I cheat and sing ‘My Country ‘tis of Thee.’ It’s another Remembrance Sunday. I am again in awe of this experience as an expat in this tiny English village.

Recipe for the Perfect Weekend

2010-11-15T05:42:00.000-08:00

Eat take out Friday night. Do no cooking. Call and order curry from the local curry house and walk over in the rain to pick it up. Then simply laugh, play, and make Christmas lists with your boys. Drink a glass of wine. Eat chocolate. And let ‘cleaning up after dinner’ mean throwing away the take-out containers.

Mix equal parts wrestling, pillow fights, and reading Harry Potter with yummy coffee, fried eggs and squishy-sweet baby. Throw in a date to the local coffee shop with one of the big boys complete with Cherry Cokes and more drawing. Then walk home holding hands. Greet the other big boy fresh from beating his daddy soundly at Risk. Make a simple dinner. Read more Harry Potter. Kiss your husband lots. Laugh at the boys’ antics. Enjoy.

Wake Sunday morning and clean the kitchen. It’s gotten a little out of hand. Go to Remembrance Sunday service down the street at the village green. Enjoy the injection of gratefulness it brings. Make a batch of pumpkin pancakes. Make another batch when that one is gone and this time double it. Slather each one with as much butter as you like and lots of syrup—or smooth peanut butter and syrup if you’re so inclined. Some are. Be sure each boy is allowed to eat as many as his tummy will hold. Mmmmmm… Bake pumpkin bread using a new recipe and ooooo and aaaaahhh over it’s perfect shape and texture. Convince Caid to eat it in bites instead of crammed into his mouth all at once. Read more Harry Potter. Tuck the baby in for a nap. Send the big boys to the summerhouse with all their pillows for a monumental wrestling-pillow war with their daddy. Greet their sweaty, red happy faces at the back door with kisses and hugs. Read more Harry Potter. Eat Autumnal Warm Salad and wish you hadn’t drunk the last of the red wine. Snuggle. Read more Harry Potter. Fall into bed exhausted, happy, and filled-up, ready to welcome the week ahead.

I heart vegetables...but not budgeting so much

2010-11-12T05:52:00.000-08:00

I have always prided myself on eating my vegetables—on eating anything really. I am not a girl to shy away from anything placed before me. Anything but this weird chicken and rice soup my mom used to make when I was a little girl. That stuff was gross. But vegetables—be they cruciferous or root, leafy or crunchy or soft or sweet. I love the ones that always get picked last for the team. The kales and the beets and the celeriac. I love vegetables, and I kind of think of myself as an uber-adult cool kid because I do. Like I get extra points in the responsibility realm. I kind of think I ought to get a badge.

So you can imagine my embarrassment and frustration when I came to the realization that if there are badges to earn in the ‘being a responsible adult’ club, I have a few glaring omissions. Reading all the good child-rearing books? Badge! Taking my children’s health and education very seriously? Badge! Clean driving record? Badge! Exercising regularly? Well, I’m working on that one, but recently—Badge! Keeping the house clean? Badge! Checking the oil every time I fill the car up? Badge! (That one’s for you, Dad). Making wholesome obscure-veggie filled meals? TWO BADGES!! Balancing the checkbook? What? I’m supposed to do that? Having a budget? Hmmmm…I’m sorry, what? Investing? SAVING?!?! WHAT??!? I’m seriously nowhere close to earning those badges. And I’m worried I’m going to get kicked out of the Uber-adult Cool Kids Club. Crap.

We’re upside down on our condo. We’ve had it for almost eight years and it’s currently worth a little over 25% of what we paid for it. Ouchy. That hurts. As we started going through with a realtor what to finally do with it we had to provide all of this financial information. We have to show why the bank needs to let us sell it for what it’s worth instead of what we owe. To my DEEP embarrassment—keep in mind I’m the Hermione Granger of the Uber-adult Cool Kids Club—I had no idea the answers to most of the questions. “How much do you spend on _______________?” Um. Yeah. I don’t know. A lot. “Rent?” Ooo ooo! I know that one! “Groceries?” You don’t want to know. “Utilities?” Um…what would those be again?

So when the official form came last week I sort of wanted to have a nervous breakdown or pull an ostrich as my friend Kelly calls it. I had to go through our bank statements (do I get a few brownie points for knowing what those are and where they were?) and tally up and average of what we had spent in each category over the last few months. It wasn’t pretty. Let’s be honest. It was butt-ugly. It was troll-butt ugly.

So…I’m working on it. A lot of folks have recommended the Dave Ramsey stuff. His Financial Peace University stuff looks pretty smart. We’re going to give it a whirl. I started searching for online budgeting software, but to be honest I haven’t signed up for one yet. I tend to get a wee bit bogged down when I start these things. I’m trying to release my Hermione Granger-ness and just start doing it instead of insisting on getting it ‘right’ the first time.

Sometimes shame is a good thing. Sometimes it shows us an area we need to step up. Take responsibility. Sometimes it points out the missing badge. I may eat a lot of vegetables, but I need to start being reasonable and responsible with money. I’m working on it. It’s time. I just wish that budgeting was as fun as eating beets.

So dear readers--any tips or suggestions? Any cool tricks? What do you use to keep track of and manage your finances?

Who knew there was a right way to hang the toilet paper roll?

2010-10-22T09:03:00.001-07:00

image credit: dooby brain

I fixed the toilet paper roll this morning. It was on upside down. I always do. Maybe I always will, but this particular time of year and this year in particular makes the effort much more poignant.

I was eight months pregnant. I worked for a hilariously loony professor of psychiatry. For my last day my co-workers had treated me to a morning at the spa. Facial. Massage. Pedicure. Then a fun lunch to send me off. Spoiled rotten. I was hugely pregnant so it was much appreciated!

Scott had called earlier in the day. He didn’t feel well. He never really complained even if he felt horrible. So it was weird that he was calling me to let me know. He had a ringing in his ears that was really bugging him. I suggested he contact Ask a Nurse when he got in to work. During lunch I got a call. The ringing had gotten really bad. He was really dizzy now. So dizzy that it was making him throw up and one of his friends at work was driving him to a walk-in clinic and could I please start the hour-long commute home and meet him there. That alarmed me a little. I got right in the car and headed home.

I remember calling to him several times from the front door. We had converted our one bedroom into a more studio-style apartment to accommodate a crib, rocker, changing table, etc. He was lying on our bed in the living room. When he didn’t answer I panicked. Went running in and practically jumped on top of him. He was lying on what I now call his ‘good ear’ so he didn’t hear me. Plus the anti-vertigo and anti-nausea meds they had given him made him extremely groggy.

I was incensed! Pump him full of drugs and send him home without checking what was wrong? Deep down I knew something was wrong, and I went into full-on mother bear mode. Got us an appointment first thing the next morning with an Ear, Nose, and Throat specialist. I remember his reaction well. Something, he knew was wrong, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Or maybe looking at the MRI he’d ordered he did know, but wasn’t allowed to say because it wasn’t his specialty. Maybe I should have been more alarmed that he sent us that very same afternoon to “the best neurosurgeon in Denver.” For whatever reason it never occurred to me that the next 3 hours would turn my world upside down.

I remember the day so well. I was wearing a v-neck white knit maternity top that at 8 months barely covered my huge belly. We sat in a tiny over-lit exam room and waited forever. When the surgeon finally did come in he was so brazen and hurried. How he could deliver the information the way he did is still beyond me.

“Come here guys. Look at these MRIs with me. So here you go. That’s your brain. See that right there? The good news is. You have a small, benign tumor. The bad news is, I’m the wrong surgeon. The one you need to see is in surgery right now, but if you’ll hang tight, he should be back in an hour or so to talk to you.” And then he left us alone in the over-lit room reeling with no more information than that my husband had a brain tumor and I was about to have a baby.

I sort of remember trying to down-play it. I’m sure it was shock. No big deal. Let’s not get too upset. Let’s wait until we can talk to the doctor. I’m sure that part was much worse for Scott. “Look—hanging up on the light board. There’s my name. There’s my brain, and right there. That spec? That’s a tumor. I have a tumor in my head.”

The rest of that evening is fuzzy in my memory. The right surgeon eventually showed up. He was still in scrubs and had the little paper things over his shoes. I recall his annoyance that we had been told ‘benign.’ Apparently a brain tumor is never benign. It has to come out—it can’t be left—so it’s not benign. We wouldn’t know about cancer until it was out and assessed. Oh…and it would have to come out. The whole thing. Oh…and it was a really risky surgery because it was just above the brain stem. Oh…and it should come out as soon as possible, but couldn’t be scheduled until the week of my due date.

We called my parents who came immediately home from their double date in Colorado Springs. I remember Mom bursting into tears as she repeated my words to the people in the car. “Scott has a brain tumor.” What? What did she just say? Holy cow. Hearing it repeated was so bizarre. We called Travis who was living with my parents at the time. We called others I’m sure. Stace and Jami? My sisters? I remember converging on the Wevodau house for prayers and tears and absorbing the shock cause I mean, whoa. This was heavy shit.

It was a hell of a 3-4 week wait for surgery. I didn’t get any of the rest I had planned before my due date, but I was so thankful to be available to drive Scott to the many appointments and MRIs and consultations.

I could fill pages and pages with the life-altering events of those few weeks. Maybe someday I will. Some of the memories are so precious—blessings that will keep my ‘blessings tank’ full for perhaps the rest of my life. Not the least of which is particularly poignant this ‘year of close widow friends’—he’s still here. Some of the memories are deep wounds. Many wounds that over the last year have finally begun to heal. Yes, it’s taken me that long.

It was about this time of year eight years ago that we sat in that over-lit exam room, and I’m still fixing the toilet paper roll: about a week before diagnosis Scott nearly came out of his chair watching me change the paper towel roll in our kitchen. “Do you REALLY think it goes that way?!!?!” he said as he raced over and changed it to roll over the top. I remember us collapsing into hilarious giggles as we discussed the audacity of his frustration—he had been changing the paper towels and toilet paper rolls behind my back for nearly four years of marriage. I had no idea there was a ‘right’ way to do it.

The morning of his surgery I watched them roll him away down the hall. It had been hurried at the last minute. I hadn’t gotten to be alone with him like we had planned. I watched them wheel him away and I remember thinking, “I didn’t get to say goodbye. What if this is goodbye.” I went to the bathroom. I couldn’t face the 30+ people in the waiting room all gathered there for Scott. I sat there, stunned. Shaken. Confused. I had no idea what to think or feel. Plus I was 9 months pregnant and it had been like, 5 minutes since I’d gone so obviously I needed to pee. I reached over for some T.P., and noticed it was ‘on wrong.’ So I changed it. I turned it over. And then I broke down. I had been so strong. So brave. And that was the breaking point. I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. There alone in a funny corridor bathroom of Swedish Medical Center. I finally lost it.

I’m still changing the toilet paper roll. Every time. Even in public bathrooms and at other people’s houses. And almost every time—especially this time of year—I say a little prayer of thanks. Of relief. Of gratitude. That Scott is still around to appreciate it.

Potty Mouths

2010-10-18T09:07:00.000-07:00

We had a hilarious conversation with friends on Saturday about bad language. Which reminded me of my favorite recent 'bad language' story:

Since I was away having drinks with girlfriends the fellas were really enjoying a boy’s night with their daddy. Belching and farting ensued at the dinner table—totally fair game on boy’s night. What with all of the impoliteness the boys figured cussing ought to be included too.

“Hey Dad? Can you tell us what the ‘F’ word is?” one boy asked.

“Nah buddy. That’s a really impolite word. I’m not going to tell you guys what it is.”

“But Dad! It’s boy’s night! Come on! Please!”

When Scott continued to refuse Bridger asked, “Okay, but can you at least tell us what it starts with?”

What about you? Any hilarious cussing stories to share? Leave them in the comments below!

Asher's birth story

2010-10-15T06:54:00.000-07:00

Just after birth

Six months ago today I was sitting around Sara’s kitchen table drinking tea and bitching about still being pregnant. Kelly had a watch with her constantly that day because Joel needed to apply cream to his eczema every 15 minutes.

I had started the day at the osteopath’s office. I was two weeks past my due date and had already struggled through several nights of long, strong contractions that after 4-6 hours would stop. Multiple acupuncture appointments hadn’t made me go into labor, but because my acupuncturist was also a counselor they had been a wonderful place to evaluate where I was and to talk through things I was really struggling with.

After my last acupuncture session it was suggested that alignment might have been an issue. So I went and had an adjustment. Sure enough my sacrum was all out of whack. Fully aligned, but still not contracting I drove home discouraged. Although I could really see the blessing all this processing was bringing, I was convinced I would be pregnant for the rest of my life. After two weeks of sticking close to home ‘just in case’ Scott and my girlfriends convinced me that a day at the park was just what I needed. We let the kids play and when it got cold, we headed to Sara’s for tea.

At first I didn’t really let on I was having contractions. I was used to them not being actual labor and I didn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up—including mine. But Kelly had that clock. And I kept noticing that they were getting awfully regular. Eventually I admitted it and she started timing me. As I remember it, they were every 4 or 5 minutes and about 45 seconds long. Finally they got strong enough that the girls noticed. So everyone rounded the kids up and Loulou drove me home. I had one massively strong contraction right at the base of the Caterham Hill roundabout. That was about 4:30 if I remember correctly.

We got home and I told Scotty I thought this was it. Anja said to let her know soonish if it was the real deal. She had a speaking engagement in Tunbridge Wells at 7:00. We went on a walk. Down Church Road and through the graveyard. Back behind the horse fields. I stopped a few times. We saw a fox. Then back through town. I wanted us to buy something at the Co-op I remember. So we took Bridger’s ‘short cut’ and walked by the chip shop. I needed chips. Good thing we bought two, because I ate one almost entirely by myself before we ever reached home.

I called Anja at 6:45ish. “Nevermind. It isn’t labor. I’m barely contracting now at all.” I was so frustrated. She encouraged me to have a little dinner, get in the birth pool to relax a little, and then go to bed early. Maybe watch a movie lying down or something.

Scott started making spaghetti and I begrudgingly stripped off and got in the birth pool. And then it’s all a blur. I remember demanding (not asking nicely—I wasn’t in that sort of a place) my cell phone around 7:20 and insisting that Anja come as quickly as she could. I remember grabbing Scotty by the front of his Rockies sweatshirt and yelling, ‘HE’S COMING.’ I remember an absolutely primal scream escaping me while Scotty was on the phone with Anja, “Anything I need to know about catching this baby?” Something about that scream made me relax. She wasn’t going to be there. We were on our own. The baby seemed to be quite comfortable clipping along at this pace. So I settled in and made peace with the speed. I instinctively began pressing on my perineum and chanting ‘sloooooowwwwwly baby. Slowly baby. Slowly baby. Slowly baby. Please baby. Slooooooooooowwwwwly for mama. Slowly baby. Slowly baby. Slowly baby.’

Most of all I remember Caid. He heard me making the low moaning noises right away from the pool and immediately sat beside me. I remember his cool, soft hands on the side of the pool. His calm, dark eyes looking deep into mine. His sweet voice soothing me. “Good job, Mama. That’s right Mama. You’re having a baby. Goooooood Mama. It’s okay. You’re having a baby.” I would grip hold of his hands tight during a contraction and then after it had subsided he’d gently and slowly stroke my warm hands with his cool ones. He was incredible. Instinctively providing just what I needed.

Bridger was amazing too. Present. Kind. Running errands for Scott and attentively watching.

Anja walked in at 8:00 and asked the boys to run to the car for her bag. When they walked back in at 8:05 I was holding Asher and rocking back and forth cooing to him and sort of basking in that deep, calm high after the rush of childbirth ends.

There was very little blood, so Anja let the boys get in the tub with me. I remember them in their shark swimsuits. Anja pointed out the cord which fascinated them. “Isn’t it a nice, juicy cord?” she asked them. Caid liked that phrase. Later when we check to make sure it was indeed a boy he noted what a “nice juicy penis” Ash had.

After a while Scott cut the cord. Not ready to leave the safe haven of the pool and deeply conscious that moving to ‘dry land’ would break the sort of trance I was still in, I opted to birth the placenta in the pool. With so little blood it was still safe too, so Anja let me be. I remember noting that this might be the last time my body would give birth. The last time I would make that ‘home’ and a haven for a small person to be formed and knitted together inside me. I knew in that heart-space that this was to be cherished. Noted. That the home was about to leave my body and that most likely this would be the last time. There was grief. I loved being pregnant. I felt so alive and beautiful and full of purpose. I knew something magical was ending. But there was relief and even excitement. Something magical was also beginning.

The placenta birthed I moved into a more conscious space. I laid on the couch with warm blankets tucked around me and Ash on my chest. He nursed and nursed and nursed. The big boys finally had their dinner which had burned a bit on the stove in all the excitement.

Anja showed us all Ash’s little house for the last 9 months. I couldn’t believe how small it was—she noted how big it was. A nice, big strong placenta for my nice, big boy. 9 lbs 13 oz to be exact. We did a little exam—nothing major. I held the baby the whole time. No tearing. My biggest baby. My shortest delivery. No tear. I credit the water and the slooooowly baby, slowly chant.

After a while Scotty took Ash and I went upstairs for a shower. I think I drank some juice. I put on soft jammies and crawled into bed. We were all tucked in and sound asleep by about 11:30. Peacefully, blissfully asleep in my very own bed!

Bridger reading to Asher for the first time

Hard to imagine it’s already been six months, and yet I can barely remember life without this new little wild man. Asher Jonathan Anderberg. Sure do love you.

Fat and Happy

2010-10-09T08:18:00.000-07:00

Since the last few days have been a bit rough (fit throwing 6 year olds, starvin’-marvin’ 5 ½ month olds, husband away all week, etc.) I have decided to avoid the cleaning and go to my happy place while the baby sleeps. Specifically, my fat and happy place: Italy. We asked Bridger about a week or two ago what his favorite country to visit has been and he declared, “Italy!” When we asked him why he replied, “because they have the BEST desserts!” I couldn’t agree more. I pretty much think they have the best of everything gastronomically speaking.

My favorite thing to do in the whole world is to go out to eat. Breakfast, lunch, dinner—I’m not bothered. Just out! Could that be declared a hobby? If so, it’s my favorite one and if I do say so myself I’m quite good at it! Plus in terms of spousal/hobby compatibility I married the perfect man. He loves to go out to eat as much as I do.

Going out to eat is far more than a hobby when we’re traveling, however. What’s the use of visiting every local monument if you never really experience the country they’re in? How on earth are you going to really learn about a new culture if you’re only ever around other tourists? What better way to encourage your children to try out the local language than through ordering their food or asking the sweet, non-English speaking server where to find the bathroom? Especially when their sweet “dov’e la toilet?” earns “ahhhhhhhh’s”…from every nonna (grandmother) within earshot. What better way to brush shoulders with the locals than by sitting side-by-side with them allowing them to introduce you to their favorite foods? You can learn a lot about a country through their food—but that’s a different post.

Bearing all that in mind, Scott and I feel you can never really experience a culture unless you eat out! We love to discover the tucked away hole-in-the-wall restaurant with good local grub and local people. I feel suspicious of places in foreign countries that advertise an ‘English Menu’ (and don’t even get me started about ‘air conditioning inside’). Where’s the adventure in that? Sure I may end up with frog intestine or mosquito eye balls, but if that’s the local delicacy isn’t that what I ought to be eating!?!? Here's the thing: If the parking lot is full? Line around the corner? Stuffed to the gills with folks speaking a totally foreign language? I’m there! I have even been known to hail a local walking down the street of a place we visit and inquire about the best place to eat. There’s nothing better than a local’s suggestion.

So imagine our chagrin when our first night out in Italy was a totally bust. Well, not total. The food was delicious, the service wonderful, the restaurant packed with locals. Try as we might though, bedtime is bedtime and baby Asher didn’t care that Italians don’t even begin eating dinner until well past his! The proprietors were very accommodating. Ushering me into the room with desserts (yum!) to bounce him and feed him, and turning off the lights to soothe him. Scott and I took turns bouncing and soothing and walking. At the end of the night we were bummed. How on earth were we going to really experience Italy if we couldn’t go out to eat? We decided we needed a new plan.

Thankfully local food can be found in places other than restaurants and Plan B can be nearly as fun as Plan A! More fun, if it takes a crying baby out of the equation!

We discovered (again by a local’s suggestion—namely our hosts, Gil and Ken) where all the best local food was sold. No need to be disappointed about not having a server to suggest the best thing on the menu. The 20-something guy at our deli was happy to play the same role. He sent us home with stacks of locale prosciutto and bresaola. The hilarious restaurant game of “I wonder what we ordered? Can’t wait to find out"--solved in the pasta section! Cartons of handmade pasta so local it didn’t even come with a label. We were never quite sure what we were getting, but it was always delicious! Gnocchi and ravioli and tortellini. Vats of Pesto Genovese. Balsamic vinegar so smooth you could have drunk it plain.

The tiny grocer was full of Italian produce. Six types of garlic, gorgeous Roma tomatoes, apples, and cavalo nero. Huge, ripe peaches and delicious pears.

The sweet lady at the bakery thought it was hilarious to try and figure out what we were ordering. We’d jabber away at her in English and she’d jabber away at us in Italian, and though we never quite got what we planned to order we always left with something incredible. Measuring with our hands the amount of foccacia to saw off the slab. Inquiring after which items were chocolate. Stocking up on fruit tarts for Caid and vanilla filled cookies for Bridge. We also managed to communicate what village we were staying in--thanks to Bridger's interpreting skills--and find out a bit about where she lived--again thanks to Bridger. Making friends with the locals!

It doesn’t get more local than picking ripe, luscious figs off the tree right behind your villa (with permission of course). We ate like kings. Every night. Washed down by €2 bottles of local wine so delicious it broke your heart to not be able to bring a drop of it home.

Plus, we never wanted for ambiance on our picturesque covered balcony—many nights looking out at the rain. Put the baby down to bed. Heat up the food, poor the wine, and sit. And visit. And be together. Add a sweatshirt or a fleece after a while and sit some more. Then when big boys start rubbing their eyes we’d get the book out. One boy on my lap and the other on Dad’s. We’d read and snuggle. Then we’d tuck them in and turn off the lights and sit a bit longer. Sipping the delicious wine and listening to the village clock chime away the hours.

Fat and happy. So happy. Who needs Plan A?

Not so bad for ambiance eh?

This moment...

2010-10-07T15:58:00.000-07:00

I’m doing that thing. That thing where I don't go to bed. I do this when Scott is away. I always have, but these days it’s also because I'm terrified of the night. It’s near torture. Desperate for sleep but knowing in 5 seconds I’m going to have to wake up to a crying baby who for about a week now has been needing to nurse every hour around the clock. And that's so totally true. But so is the reality that he smells good. And he's sweet. And he's so grateful when I lift his little squishy body from his bed and snuggle him up and feed him. And his sweaty little head against my arm is delicious and fulfilling in it's own way. So I will persevere. And go upstairs. And quit doing the thing. And remember that this is a season. That I won't always feel so sucked dry and mind numbingly, life alteringly tired. I will remember that there will come a day when he's too big to sleep on my chest.

I will go upstairs and kiss the big boys before I crawl into my bed and I will remember the leaf and pumpkin paintings the six year old and I painted instead of the insults he hurled. The “this is sort of like an at-home date!” instead of the “you’re the worst mommy ever.” I will remember the biggest boy who pressed my hand to his face when I tucked him in and said, "oh Mama, I MISSED you today." I will remember the 6 year old who wanted to sit by me in the sunshine. Whose solution to the fact that "we just fight. Every. Single. NIGHT!” was "to snuggle more and do less chores except the cooking and the unloading of the dishwasher."

I will remember that they are mine, but only for a short, short time. That I will get more sleep and have more sex and be skinnier and have a cleaner house, but I will also be more lonesome and long for their loud, wild voices. I will remember that there will only be a very short time when I can solve every one of the baby's problems with my snuggles and my breasts. I will enjoy days they stay home sick from school even if it dissolves into complete freaking out meltdowns. Because I love them. And I do know it is an incredible privilege to be their mother. To be a mother. And I remember that it is not all that I am. But for this moment, this one right now…it is enough.

Fall and Autumn

2010-10-06T13:36:00.001-07:00

I love Fall--all damp earth and rubber wellies and wet dog. Its wood fired cinnamon scented yumminess. Its pumpkin flavored deliciousness. Its wool sweaters and down vests. Its greedy insistence on all the year’s best colors—pumpkin orange and cranberry red, and plum, and deep, deep browns. I. Love. Fall.

Something about it makes me pull out all my cookbooks. I want to spend every spare moment baking spiced cakes and standing over my red Dutch oven turning out hearty stews and soups with hunks of brown bread.

I tend to clean the house really well (who made the rule that Spring should get the best cleaning?). Organizing closets and throwing things away. Bringing out the sweaters and putting away the shorts. Well, who am I kidding really. I live in England. The sweaters are needed year round and I think I only wore one pair of my shorts twice this summer—and that was when I was home in Colorado.

Strangely I’m coming to appreciate the English ‘Autumn’ as they refer to it. At home Fall hits all of the sudden. The days are warm and the nights are crisp. The aspen leaves turn in September and everything is a blaze of color. We spend the weekends going to corn mazes and pumpkin farms and driving up Highway 285 to see the trees. We drink Pumpkin Spice Lattes and eat a lot of green chili and plan costumes for Halloween.

English Autumn comes on gradually. You wake nearly every morning to mist. The fog is ridiculously beautiful, but must be complained about incessantly. The leaves change slowly, slowly. Only small patches of yellowish leaves until a big storm hits much later in October and blows all the leaves off the trees. Until then there’s still so much green and the fall flowers are bright and pretty. Weekends are for wellie walks and roast dinners. We eat leeks and potatoes and thick pork sausages with gravy. London Starbucks baristas may say “Ew, NO! Pumpkin?!?!” when you ask for a Pumpkin Spice Latte, but there’s nothing like an English bitter ale on a cold, wet day (even if I am one of the only women drinking beer).

Here Autumn is marked by the length of days. They rapidly get shorter and shorter and even the boys note that it’s hard to tell when to get up because it’s all the sudden dark in the morning. Halloween is only barely celebrated, but I can’t wait for Bonfire Night and fireworks!

Fall is one of those halfway places. Where I long for the familiarity of my old home and all of my ‘old’ favorite things, and yet I revel in the comfort of my new home and all my ‘new’ favourite things. It’s funny to me how much I ache for Colorado this time of year and yet how dearly I love this little village.

Leave it to Fall to teach me to love this cold, damp country.

Getting There

2010-09-21T15:14:00.001-07:00

After a day of travel, two hours of wrangling car seats, exchanging car seats, and re-wrangling car seats we were finally on our way. Needing strength for our first continental European driving experience we exited the first big roundabout to the first restaurant we spotted. Thus our first dining experience in Italy began—at the golden arches. Yep. It was McDonalds for our first Italian meal. Irony is a funny thing. Uninhibited by nostalgia Caid was none too impressed even if it did include a toy. Bridger was stoked. I pretty much felt sick before I’d even finished my last bite, but a family’s gotta do what a family’s gotta do.

Our strength revived and my navigational skills intact we headed for the hills. With no sat nav and no map it was definitely a “look how far we’ve come” sort of moment. Two years ago the directions that Gil, the owner, sent would have meant about as much to us as Egyptian Hieroglyphics. Gil is English, and English directions crack us up. “Go straight on here. “ “Go through the roundabout.” “Take the left turning there.” “After the second tunnel go left on the roundabout then past the narrow bridge with the tricky left hand turning carry on going 4 kilometres or so until you reach the Mill on your right hand side then take the sharp right hand turn and park where the road opens wider under the trees.” WHAT?!? Our American compasses were prewired for directions more like, “take University South to Arapahoe and turn left. Go six blocks and take a right. Take the second right and it’s the 4^th house on the left.” American directions seem so much more specific. Where we grew up in Montana if you took one wrong turn you might end up in a whole other state! Italy was more like the English variety. We revelled in our new “we’ll get there eventually” paradigm and enjoyed what a mere 2 years ago would have certainly caused a huge fight and sent me into hyperventilating hysterics. Italy could be chalked up as a success right then and there and we hadn’t even arrived at our villa yet.

Ironing...

2010-09-08T06:03:00.003-07:00

I ironed today. I know, right? I don’t really iron. I hate to do it, first of all. Plus anytime I make an attempt Scotty usually gives me a pained look while he snatches the iron away from me, exclaiming, “do you mind?” I guess we can assume I’m also not very good at ironing.

Once when my mother-in-law Ruth was visiting she asked Bridger, “Bridger, do you know where Mommy keeps her iron?” Bridger replied, “I don’t think Mommy has an iron, but Daddy keeps his in his closet with his ironing board.”

Today though, I ironed. What, pray tell caused this momentary lapse? Well, Scott’s out of town and the boys have Karate and their uniforms needed pressing. It was pretty hilarious, and it took me forever. Oh also, when I went in just now to bring them downstairs I realized I’d forgotten one arm on Caid’s suit. I’m thinking of switching the boys to Rugby. J

1st Day of School

2010-09-03T04:36:00.000-07:00

I’m trying to stay hydrated. It’s sensible. Plus I need a focus and I figure it’s better than the alternative—eat lots of chocolate. With both big boys off at school I’m not sure what on earth to do with myself. So I figure I’ll drink lots and lots of water.

No seriously. It’s been a whirlwind around here. I have absolutely loved our homeschooling journey. Getting to teach the boys to read and write their letters. I love to get the math stuff out every day and hear “YES! MATH!” Homeschooling has had all kinds of bonuses. Like getting to tailor a curriculum to exactly where they’re at with appropriate helps and challenges. Like all the amazing field trips we’ve taken to museums and castles (during the school day too so it’s not wall to wall school kids!) Like tromping through the woods in our wellies several times a week and making cookies for ‘cooking class’ and Friday night parties to celebrate the theme of the week and include Daddy. And let’s be honest, getting to sleep until 8:30 every day ain’t so bad either! Yeah. It’s been pretty much awesome.

There were not so great things too though. Like being with my kiddos 24 hours a day, 7 days a week with nary a break in between. I love my boys a ton, but deliver me. That’s a lot of boy. Also I’m not trained as a teacher and I didn’t always know what to teach or how to teach it to keep them up to snuff. I struggle to remember the difference between and adjective and an adverb. So you can imagine me trying to remember every time Bridger would ask. Plus I’m a small menu kind of a gal. I prefer to frequent the restaurants with only a few specialized choices. I hate those places with a multi-paged document you feel you need about an hour just to read, let alone decide on. I have been known to hysterically throw such menus to my husband pleading, “Chicken? I don’t know? Help!” Homeschooling is a gazillion paged menu. There are millions of ‘methods’ on how to teach and a gob of curriculum choices, and I found it very hard not to get bogged down.

Another thing—I am not a great schedule/routine gal. Especially towards the end of my pregnancy I would find whole days would go by without me noticing. It would be 4:00 and I would have just showered. All of the sudden I’d panic, “Okay, boys! Math time!” They were pretty flexible, but it got a little old. Bridger, especially, craves routine and really thrives with a bit of structure in his day and this Mama was not cutting it in that department.

As we neared the end of the summer I was stoked. I had a curriculum all picked out based on the Romans through the Renaissance. I had a list of places around England we were going to visit on our “outing Thursdays” as tie-ins to what we were doing. I had a new Math book. New markers. New three-ring binders that came special delivery from the States. What I did not have was any more energy or capacity and I was starting to panic.

I started fantasizing about the big boys going to school. Whole lists of stuff I could do with just me and Ash. Whole side-fantasies about a bit of piece and quiet. Having time to go to lunch with a friend. Pooping in our house’s one bathroom without any one interrupting. Stuff like that. Then I started having dreams every single night about bizarre reasons they HAD to go to school. In one the Queen visited and said they had to. I was like, “Oh, okay your majesty, I’ll take them straight away.” I even used an English Accent when I answered her. The thing is that in each scenario no matter how crazy or convoluted the reason they had to go at the end the overwhelming feeling of the dream was one of relief. I finally admitted it to Scott and after several late nights of talking and crying and a couple of weeks of me obsessing over all the questions, “Does this make me a bad mom?” “Will they do alright?” “Will the boys be behind and the teachers think I’m a terrible teacher?” “Will they like school?” “Will this make them hate school?” “Is Caid ready?” “Am I ready?” “Will the Queen be glad I obeyed and invite me to the palace for tea to discuss how well they’re doing?”

We found out Wednesday at 11 that both boys had a place at Warlingham Village Primary School. Wednesday afternoon was a mad dash for uniforms: grey trousers, black shoes, white polos, and get this—white gym shorts. WHAT?!?! We packed backpacks and lunchboxes and laid out clothes and yesterday I took my little men to their first day of school. Dude. It was intense.

Bridger woke up a little green and was sure he would puke and was too sick for school. Caid had a whole stack of survival gear and a library’s worth of books he was trying to get into his backpack. In the end I got them out the door and to the school. Both boys found someone to line up with and they were off. I spent the day cleaning my house and obsessively watching the clock. Counting down the minutes until I could go pick them up. “Can I go yet? Now can I? Is now to early? Now?” I missed them!

They were all smiles when I picked them up. Bridger said, "Mom, I think this is going to be WONDERFUL!" Both boys had new friends by the end of the day and were full to the brim with stories about how fun it was and how much they liked their teachers. When I asked them our usual "high point/low point?" question they both reported it was all highs--"not a single low, Mom. Not ONE!" :-) I’m so glad. I do have to admit though that a tiny piece of me wanted them to declare it a disaster and beg me to teach them instead. I guess that’s not on the table now. So…what to do with myself? I better go drink some more water.

Wish there was a ritual...

2010-08-23T14:54:00.000-07:00

He was hilarious. He had a great laugh. His hugs were some of the best, ever. He was kind. He loved my kids. He was a fisherman. He was a great cook. He was the apple of my sister’s eye and she was his. He was just stinkin’ fantastic…and now he’s gone. Tomorrow marks one year since he the day he left this earth.

I read up on rituals to celebrate the anniversary of someone’s death. I loved that there were extremely specific ways of marking that day in so many other cultures. Most included sacrifices and prayers. One mandates a candle being lit at sundown the day before and left burning until sundown the day of. Some suggest articles left on altars (if I had an altar I’d leave a match-box car corvette…see below). Others specific foods eaten in specific orders. In our Western culture we have no rituals for grief. It’s tragic really. Rituals provide context. They’re very helpful that way.

I like rituals, but as there was no mandated one in my culture it was really hard to think of something to do tomorrow, and yet I felt compelled to do something. I just couldn’t decide and then I was reminded by a friend of his own great description of himself on his facebook page. Here's what he wrote:

Anyone who knows me knows that I have always been a fisherman, but over the last fifteen years my passion has bordered on obsession. I am an AVID fly fisherman. Rain or shine my pursuit of trout with a flyrod is endless. The only thing that eclipses my love of fly fishing is my love for my precious wife, Noel. And, I am also a man who.....has been sober for more than 4 years~has driven a motorcycle 140 mph~thinks mean people suck~has been in a hurricane, 2 blizzards, been caught outside in a crushing hailstorm and evacuated because of a tsunami~loves hazelnut americanos~Once stood on top of the World Trade center~has been 2200 miles up the Amazon river~ has seen the Taj Mahal with my own eyes~has been bitten by a snake, 2 dogs, a goose, a cat, countless fish and about a gazillion mosquitos~cries every time Rudy finally gets accepted to Notre Dame~would risk my life for someone I've never met~takes a flyrod on every vacation, no matter where, just in case~thinks climbing Everest is impressive but wishes they would clean up their shit afterwards~has caught lobsters and alligators with my bare hands~knows how to sail~doesn't remember learning how to swim(I could always do it)~loves Hawaiian music~wants an old school corvette but in the mean time collects corvette hotwheels~eats the best bite somewhere in the middle~is addicted to Fresca~digs climbing trees~has gone over a waterfall to land a trout~thinks Leggos are frickin' fun~is fascinated by thunderstorms but afraid of lightning~is a pretty decent pistol shot~has hunted elk with a bow~would most likely kick my little sisters ass in pool or darts(inside joke)~has surfed waves big enough to keep most people out of the water~would pull over on a lonely highway to take a bitchin' photograph~would take the lonely highway in the first place, on purpose~ has been 10 feet from a 12 ft. tiger shark~feels sorry for zoo and circus animals~has caught a yellow-fin tuna and eaten it sashimi style within 5 minutes~has had over 150 stitches~tried to ride a BMX bike off a roof into a pool and missed~has wrecked 3 cars and 2 motorcycles~knows the difference between western and english horseback riding styles and can do both~thinks that greenhouse gasses are not just a made up problem, and that we will most likely run out of oil in our lifetime~ thinks people should be able to marry whomever they choose, regardless of gender, and that everyone should have the right to choose~believes there is a difference between listening and hearing, and that to get respect you have to give it~believes that there is a God~and finally, believes that the greatest gift anyone posseses is the ability to recognize their own gift.

Perhaps one of Sawan’s greatest gifts was the gift of making any time, on any day, with anyone--a party. So to honor my dear friend and deeply missed brother-in-law and my boy's uncle extraordinaire we’re going to party. I have waffled back and forth but in the end I decided to follow Bridger and Caid's lead because that would have been very Sawan-esque too. So, I think we’ll swim. That seems appropriate. We may go to the park and have a picnic. One of the last times I saw Sawan we had a great picnic at Wash Park. I believe we’ll eat—cause he liked to do that too. I may get the legos out and we might draw pictures and I’m not sure what else. Mostly we’ll miss him, and we’ll love him, and we’ll do our best to honor his spirit and love of life and others.

Sawan Nail, you are deeply missed.

What a year...

2010-08-22T06:38:00.000-07:00

I descend the overgrown steps in my wellies and marvel at how sweaty I am considering the overcast day. We cross a little wooden footbridge and over the style into the farmer’s field and I watch my big boys race with their friends to the opposite side while the sheep scatter. It’s postcard perfect English countryside and I’m on another weekend walk with my friends. I’m quite sure this may be the perfect way to spend a Saturday. A walk through the countryside ending, of course, with a pint at the pub. Then we all converge on the designated house and tuck in to curry complete with too much wine, much laughter, and talking until late into the night.

I celebrated a quintessentially English 33^rd birthday yesterday. Surrounded by good friends, my baby sister, and my four men.

A year ago today I was on a train through the beautiful French countryside. It was one of my favorite Caid moments. We were sitting on the train platform in Avignon, France. Some young blonde backpackers near us were speaking a language neither Scott nor I recognized. We were discussing what it might be when Caid very adamantly declared, “I know what it is! Vegetarian!” Scott and I died laughing! Several minutes later Caid asked, “What is ‘veg’?” Thinking he meant the newly learned British translation of a common word I answered, “vegetables.” “A country, called ‘Vegetable’ Mom? I don’t think so.” was his incredulous reply. We howled.

It was a wonderful birthday week. We dropped Bridger and Caid with Travis and Keri in Arles, France, and Scott and I spent several days celebrating our 11 year anniversary by ourselves in Antibes. We visited the local Farmer’s Market and swam in the salt-water pool every day. We took walks. We ate amazing meals at tiny restaurants. It was so fun. Then we reunited with the fellas and the Baars and went swimming and cliff jumping at a gorgeous river beneath a old Roman aqueduct—The Pont du Gard. We ate birthday dinner in the middle of the town square beneath twinkly lights and I even drank just a tiny bit of wine on account of my first trimester pregnancy. It was delicious. Memorable. Hilarious. Relaxing.

We returned home and thus began one of the most intense years of my life.

I thought I’d give myself the next few weeks to sort through the memories a bit. Mind if I share a few of them with you? What were you doing a year ago today?

I sound like my mother...

2010-05-28T16:09:00.000-07:00

I threw a granola bar across the kitchen tonight. Someone had spilled water on the clutter and not-yet-put-away-grocery strewn counter and not cleaned it up. The oldest boy was laying on the couch with dark circles under his eyes, looking gaunt after 2 ½ days of flu induced starvation. The youngest was in a sling laying his snoring head on my chest because he refused to be set down long enough for me to make dinner. The middle was fake crying because I used a stern voice the third time I asked him to complete his chore. Sicked-on laundry and an overflowing diaper pail. A broken washing machine. A sink and countertop of dirty dishes because the dishwasher hadn’t been unloaded. After two Diet Cokes and ½ a chocolate bar dipped in peanut butter straight out of the jar I’d lost all coping mechanisms. I threw a granola bar because of spilled water. It wasn’t even spilled milk for crying out loud. “I’m living with a bunch of PIGS!”

The proverbial ‘they’ always say that one day you’ll wake up and realize you sound just like your mother. This was my day.

It was a Sunday afternoon and we’d both apparently read the ‘for teens’ column of the Parade Magazine. Kids had written in about what their parents did that drove them nuts. She sat on my bed and asked me what she did that drove me nuts. I remember quoting her, “I live with a bunch of PIGS!” I remember I made her laugh as I recounted how sometimes all of the sudden she’d suddenly freak out about the state of the house when it didn’t seem to bother her a few minutes—even seconds—before.

It occurred to me the other day that when my mother was my age she had four kids and the youngest was already 4 years old. As that realization washed over me I was flooded with forgiveness and awe. Oh. Wow. I get it. I totally get it. The m&m’s as ‘good mood pills.’ The sudden freak outs about the laundry pile or the dishes or the dirty room. The deeper moments of frustration and confusion about how in the world to raise this gaggle of kids. My dad wasn’t from the generation of men who do their share of the cooking or housework. She did it all. When her mother visited she didn’t do laundry and bounce babies. She drove my mother crazy and stirred up derision.

She may have lived with a bunch of pigs, but I don’t remember her ever throwing a granola bar.

Hey Mom? Thanks. You amaze me. And I don’t care what ‘they’ say. I don't mind sounding just my mother.

Tradeoffs

2010-05-28T13:34:00.000-07:00

I have these moments. I’m sitting down. Finally. I pull out my computer, excited for the opportunity to write an email. Finally. I’m lonely and excited and I have so much to share. Friends have written and they have so much to share and I want to respond. Finally. An email. A two handed email. As opposed to the one-handed and generally one-lined iPhoned attempts. Ahhhhhh….finally. Halfway in, the big boys begin an epic light saber fight and Caid makes an excited exclamation. Bam. The baby wakes up. Nothing will console except a cuddle or a finger to suck on (he won’t take a pacifier) and well…maybe just a one-handed email to let them know I at least read what they wrote?

Tonight Scott had the baby and was cooking dinner. I had finally taken care of a couple of my “need to order online” list items. The new Court Yard Hounds album was rocking on Spotify and I was about to finally start writing. So much to write about. Homebirth. Wellies. The 100 Acre Wood. Birth. Mothering an infant. The journey. But here was a sweet 5 year old. Longing to read me a book. Cuddled up close and interrupting every few minutes. “Mama? Wanna know what that says? Aaaaalllllllrrrrrreeeeeddddddyyyyy. Already!” And how can I not be so excited. And how can I not drop everything for what is really his first attempt at reading an entire book by himself? And how can I not set aside my computer and cuddle him up and drink in the moment. But…see…it’s the first time in nearly a week to sit by myself for 20 minutes and the first time in six weeks I’ve had to sit with my computer and TWO HANDS and do whatever I want to do. For just 20 minutes. Finally.

These moments. These tradeoffs. These are the tensions. The issues. The balancing act of taking care of children and trying to look after oneself. A household AND the people in it. Do I sleep for an hour or make sure everyone has clean underwear? Make the journey to the grocery store with three boys in tow or eat peanut butter sandwiches for breakfast, lunch and dinner? These are the days of snatching a conversation with my husband while I shower since the water sounds sooths the baby and he doesn’t cry. The days of “I’m not sure I brushed my teeth today” and “Can you just wear dirty jeans for one more day?” These are the days of a cupcake being the fastest available lunch vs. “sure wish I had a pair of jeans that fit.” These are the days of baby cries that break my heart and my will and baby smiles that light up my whole world. Of snatches of conversations. Of broken sleep. Of tradeoffs.

It’s a lot of work. But it’s good work…if you can get it.

Hever Castle in the Spring

2010-04-10T03:39:00.001-07:00

Some are wearing fancy sundresses with sandals. Some have on the summer uniform for around here—capris and flops with wrap around sweaters and Bodin tshirts. Some of the men have manpris or jeans and tennis shoes with ragged tshirts. The other half have linen shirts tucked in to freshly pressed kahkis and funny ‘Indiana Jones’ sun hats that don’t do them any favors I’m afraid.

The whole place is ablaze with daffodils. Thousands and thousands of daffodils. Daffodils beneath the ancient groves of trees. Daffodils like carpet in the orchard at the base of the castle just this side of the moat. Daffodils with pink flowering trees among them. Some look like delicate stars. Some are big and fat and look like the sun itself. Bridger says the ones with orange middles look like faces, and I giggle as he imitates what they would sound like if they could speak.

Two hours chasing one another through the wooden maze and up and down the long metal slide. I sit in the sunshine. A tad uncomfortable but immeasurably happy. They try the zip line. Spend ages on the swings as Caid has discovered that this year he really doesn’t need a push and continually shouts, “Look how HIGH I am!” as if he can’t believe it himself.

We run to the bathroom and discover that the playground is nothing compared to the rhododendron trees. They teach the English brother and sister pair the term ‘hide-out’ and climb as high as they can and play pirates. Soon the game is disrupted when Caid’s sword—his BEST sword, the one he plays with every single day and carries with him everywhere—breaks. I can’t stand to see him so very heartbroken and we run right away to the gift shop and buy him a new one. Best £2.50 I’ve spent in ages.

Time for snacks. We choose a place near the field and overlooking the daffodiled orchard and the castle. I splurge—it’s a splurgish kind of day—and buy us a gluten free brownie and juice and crisps. Yum. We sit and chat and the boys get gooey-chocolate faced. Then they run and test out the new sword with ferocious duelling in the grass. I get a look from the mom at the table next to us because she has just yelled at her two to not wrestle, and I don’t make mine stop.

We walk to the Italian gardens. Turn a corner into the ‘blue garden’, and it instantly stops us in our tracks. Caid is climbing the rocks to sniff the blue polyanthus. Bridger kneels right down on the ground and sticks his nose into the flowers. Informing me it’s the hyacinths and not the violas that smell so “lovely.” I stand in the middle transfixed. Breathing in the delicious smell of hundreds of hyacinths and thinking I live an amazing life.

We walk back to the car the long way. Exploring a cave and a little sheltered area that Caid likes. I start to get tired, but I wouldn’t have traded the day. Sunshine. My boys. The flowers.

I sure am blessed.

You know you’re 40 weeks pregnant when…

2010-04-07T02:37:00.000-07:00

I grab my robe. Finally convinced by the 3 AM rumblings in my tummy that sleep will not return without a little smackerel of something from the kitchen. I walk downstairs in that hazy half-sleep place. Only turning on some of the lights. Noodles and sauce from the fridge. I head toward the bowls in the cabinet when—squish—foot meets slug. I scream. Then feel a bit silly as I turn on the light and reach for a paper towel. Had the paper towel been right there and able to wipe of the foot with no trouble that might have been the end of the story. However, on the way to the paper towel I spotted not one, but SEVEN more slugs. Seven 3 inch, nasty orangey-colored English slugs.

What’s a girl to do? Run sobbing to her knight in shining armor of course. “Scotty? Scotty? Nothing’s wrong. It’s okay. The baby is fine. But I’m hungry. I couldn’t sleep. I need a snack and there are slugs everywhere in the kitchen. Will you please come help me-he-ee-ee-ee?”

My mind races to that obsessive crazy place. I start imagining giant slugs eating my children and covering my world in slime. “What will I do when I have to feed the baby in the middle of the night? What if I need something from downstairs? How will I go into the kitchen if there are slugs everywhere? Last year there was only one slug occasionally. SEVEN slugs? Where are they coming from? This is too much! I haven’t even seen any outside yet. If there are seven now what about when it’s full-on slug season? Maybe they’re breading underneath my cabinets? There must be a hole in the wall? What else could get in from outside? What if Scotty is gone on a trip? How will I stomach cleaning up all of the slugs? Maybe we need a cat. Do cats capture and eat slugs? A dog? Maybe there are slug traps like mice traps. We only went to sleep a few hours ago. How did they get in here so fast? Aren’t slugs supposed to be slow? What if they get upstairs? I want to go back to Colorado. Oh NO!!!!!” I’m a sobbing, blithering idiot falling to pieces on the couch while my husband dutifully and sweetly not only cleans up the slugs, but also takes the trash out to the garage. I’m guessing he knew I’d be picturing them multiplying in the garbage can and bringing their armies to attack us.

Scotty calls me into the slug free kitchen and cracks a joke complete with hilarious slow-slug impression. “At least they don’t scatter when you turn the lights on!” he says and then moves slowly, slowly across the floor. I’m reminded of a story my mom told about living in married student housing on the New Mexico State campus and finding a cockroach when she unwrapped me from my baby blankets one night. I start to get the picture. Maybe I’m overreacting? I tell Scotty I’m sorry—that I’ll try to laugh as soon as possible about all of this, and that I’ll reconsider packing my bags for Colorado first thing tomorrow morning.

children are amazing

2010-04-02T12:42:00.001-07:00

Children are amazing. Unpredictable. Infinitely more interesting than most adults. “What would you like to do today boys?” A museum! WHAT?!?! I shouldn’t be surprised. These are the boys that insisted we go to the Louvre in Paris (Scott and I weren’t thrilled—we’d been) because they needed to see the real album cover painting of Coldplay’s Viva la Vida. That was one of those moments when you realize your kids are cooler than you are and they aren’t even teenagers yet. Ah well.

Today was wonderful. We met friends at my favorite London locale—Borough Market. Drank coffee from Monmouth. Ate our chosen snacks standing up under the central structure since it was ‘chucking down’ rain. More proof that our children our cooler than us? Out of all the options at Borough Caid wanted cucumber and tomato salad with roasted sweet potatoes. Again, WHAT?!?! Then we sat at another coffee shop and visited for a while. The boys explaining their favorite aspects of various European cities. It was one of those I-can’t-believe-we-get-to-live-this-life moments.

Our friends left and the boys weren’t ready to go home. So at their request we walked to the nearest museum, the Tate Modern.

Art museums are amazing places with children. A gigantic steel sculpture is experienced with every sense. It’s brilliant to run underneath. Dark and creepy inside. Makes a fantastic hollow-echo sound when you run on it and should really be classified a climbing structure! I don’t know how the artist or the curators would feel, but I love to watch them assess artwork’s value through all of their sensory grids.

To my boys, what’s outside the windows is just as interesting as what’s inside the frames. They sat beside the Jackson Pollack and just across from Monet’s Water Lilies and sketched St Paul’s and the Millennium Bridge and the Thames outside the window. Bridger’s of course included people and animals. Caid’s was drawn on a grader scale and much more technical.

The sun had come out by the time we left. Blue skies over St Paul’s. We ate bratwurst and looked at daffodils in Southwark Cathedral’s gardens. Then we took the train home. It was one of those magic days. Made all the more interesting and rich and wonderful by the two little men who accompanied Scott and I. Children are amazing.

of falafel and bad attitudes

2010-03-28T08:07:00.000-07:00

It’s a well known fact amongst aficionados that the best Mexican food comes from either a hole in the wall grubby restaurant (often located in some obscure strip-mall) or the ever popular ‘burrito wagon’ parked in an equally obscure parking lot. I think it’s a reasonable conjecture to include hot dogs and Philly Cheese Steak Sandwiches in this rule as well. Hot, authentic, greasy and wrapped in thin paper that sticks to the food and stinks up the inside of your car for weeks. All washed down by an ice cold coke. Side note: I’ve always wondered how those wagons get the coke so stinkin’ cold. It’s like magic.

I live in England now, though. No burrito wagons. No hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurants either. It’s a sad, sad state of affairs, and quite frankly has been a thorn in the side of this whole pregnancy.

I took a little trip to Forest Row this week. A cute, hippie village about 35 minutes from here. What was scheduled as an hour-long acupuncture session ended up being a much needed 2-hour heart to heart and an attitude adjustment.

See, I feel like a beached whale. A glimpse of myself has me thinking ‘fun house mirror’ these days. My maternity tops no longer cover my belly. Anything that isn’t knit or draw string cuts into my skin and makes it difficult to breathe. My poor feet can only be squashed into my Uggs. Even my nose and lips are larger than their usual proportions. Then there’s all the fun that comes with this 38 ½ week size. The jerking/ rolling/ propelling movement to get myself out of bed or the front seat of the car. The rests at the top of stair cases. The million trips to the bathroom. Add to that the intense emotional stuff and let’s just say I’m over it. I’m more than over it. I have a bad attitude.

So this week, the acupuncturist asked the right question. I poured my heart out and it helped. Disappointment. Pain. Frustration. This has been a hell of a pregnancy in the emotions department. People I love have died and are dying. Pain and trauma of years past finally brought to the surface to be dealt with because it can’t be shoved back down—there’s no room for baby and pain. Baggage agitated by people letting me down. To top it all off there’s no effing Mexican food. What’s a craving pregnant girl to do? How does one comfort eat when the correct comfort food isn’t available?!?!

Turns out, eat falafel. There’s a great health food store in Forest Row. I bought the difficult-to-find-elsewhere booty just in the nick of time before they closed and headed to the car. And there it was. The falafel wagon. Parked in an alley behind the store. Like manna from heaven. Greasy, wrapped in nasty, sticky paper. Sold with an ice-cold coke and damn if it wasn’t—of course—the best falafel I have ever eaten.

I sat in the car in the pouring rain and admired the hundreds of daffodils blooming in the grass all around the parking lot. I mmmm’d and ahhhh’d over the ridiculously good falafel and felt so much better. And a paradigm shift occurred (or at least began to occur). One simple word change that helped. Instead of waiting around for this baby to come. Disappointed. Huge. Grumpy. I switched to anticipating. Waiting is what we do in angst and boredom. Anticipation is the thing that makes the falafel wagon jump out at us in all of its culinary glory. We see it because we are looking for something good. Eager. Excited. Expecting the best. And boy did it deliver.

This baby will come. I won’t be huge forever. The pain and disappointment will heal. And as it does, thank GOD I now know where to get the good falafel.

insomniac hotel musings

2010-03-12T02:46:00.000-08:00

My tummy is tight and the room is loud with heaters blowing and OH MY GOSH I’m thirsty. I felt my way to the toilet at 2 something with no light and then stood at the sink afterwards grasping around for the tiny glass with the paper hat. I did get a small drink, but all I could think about the whole time was that YouTube video you forwarded me from Scott Chadwick a few years ago about the housekeepers giving each glass a squirt of windex and wiping out with a cleaning cloth before replacing the hat.

It’s 3 something now and this time I turned on a light instead of peeing in the dark and decided to find your water bottle for my drink. My belly is tight and my hair is fuzzy-wild and ticklish from going to bed with wet hair. You are very warm and snoring pleasantly. Wish I could be so lucky. But alas, here I am. Big, tight belly. Thirsty and wide awake at 3:25 am in Bristol, Avon, England, on March 6^th, 2010.

I’ve been thinking about that beautiful brown line. The one pregnant ladies get from the top of their bellies, down the middle, past the reminder of their own birth—their belly button—to the bottom of their round bump. I’ve never understood what this is for, this line. I love it. Beautiful. Sensual. An outline? An arrow? A journey mapped? Mine is crooked. It veers off and breaks up a bit at my belly button. The casualty of belly button scar tissue and it’s hilarious stretchmark repercussions.

How very apt this seems. The journey never follows those beautiful straight lines. Nah. It’s a veerish sort of thing. Profoundly affected by decisions that seemed so beautifying and exciting and innocuous at the time. You look back later and wonder if you should warn others. “Belly button piercings might ruin your dark-brown line later on!” And you realize the absurdity not of the warning, but of the statement itself. The meanderings of my dark-brown line are my testimony. My path. To life. To motherhood and womanhood and to myself. It has never ever been straight. Nor have the meanderings been ruinous. Quite the contrary. They are my banner. The ‘interesting’ to my story. The tears and laughter and wonderful fodder for thought at 3 something in the morning lying next to your snoring self and obsessing about water vessels whilst dying of thirst.

Tiny socks

2010-03-01T04:46:00.000-08:00

There are very tiny socks in my washing machine. Just two of them. A white pair with the Rockie’s ‘CR’ in purple on the front. They’re for Opening Day—a day revered like Christmas in my family. They’re in there with the bigger boy’s muddy baseball pants. Spring Training is in full swing at the Anderberg house. Soon there will be Sunday baseball days—an afternoon family baseball game at the park, followed by Scott’s famous grilled burgers and then the Rockies game on MLB.tv . If it’s anything like last year Bridger and his daddy will stay up as late as it takes to catch the very last inning and Caid and I will be asleep by the 5^th.

This year though, there will be another person along. A person who wears very tiny socks. It’s hard to imagine. I can hardly wrap my head around it. There will be another little boy in my house by Opening Day. That’s only a little over a month away. Whoa.

It’s funny. I am a doula now. A childbirth educator. I’ve done 2 extensive trainings about birth and pregnancy. Completed one certification and am well into another. Read literally hundreds of books, articles, studies, accounts, blogs, etc. All about birth. Yet somehow, I still feel overwhelmed. Surprised at how apprehensive and uncertain I am.

This feeling has ebbed and flowed throughout this pregnancy, but welled up inside of me intensely about 3 weeks ago. I panicked. There were all these…THINGS I wanted to do before this little person arrived. I had communicated my expectations and wishes. I had bought journals and pastels and made lists and well, PLANS. You know, PLANS!! Then three weeks ago when it hit me just how close we were to the end (cue music, duh duh duuuuuuuuhhhhhh) I realized that my plans hadn’t panned out and I panicked. Completely panicked.

I cried. I threw fits. I moaned and sobbed about how this was my last pregnancy. About how IMPORTANT these things had been and now it was too late and I’d never, ever get tot do them ever, never again. Okay, so maybe I wasn’t quite that dramatic. Or actually, probably I was.

In truth, I know I really did need to let all that out. There was genuine disappointment there. Disappointment from not one, but three pregnancies. Let’s face it, disappointment is an incredibly heavy and ugly thing to carry around. It’s a thief. If we let it, it robs of us of enjoying the wonderful blessings of the moment as we struggle with the very real and at the time ignored pain of the past.

There was some genuine baggage to be sorted out too. That’s been a present process all throughout this 9 months. My first pregnancy and postpartum experience was not a walk in the park with a husband having and recovering from major brain surgery. Throw in the fears and expectations (real and imagined) of friends and family members, my desire to make it all right for everyone, and the sheer immaturity factor and well, let’s just sum it up with baggage, shall we?

So several tears, fits, yelling, sobbing, sobbing, and lots more sobbing and somehow, I am sitting here. In my sunny kitchen. Listening to the big boys upstairs with their friends playing knights and princesses. Watching the tiny socks go around in the washer and thinking, “Wow, I’m having a baby soon.”

See, I do know an awful lot about pregnancy and birth. I am a great doula. I have read and learned a lot. However, sometimes ‘ignorance is bliss’ wins out over ‘knowledge is power.’ Or perhaps it’s neither. Perhaps it’s all a lesson in letting things go. Expectations. Plans. Ideals.

I am having a baby. A tiny little person who wears tiny little socks. A precious little boy who will be here, watching the game with us on Opening Day. I don’t know exactly how it will go. Surely there will be stories to tell and the pain will be mixed with the ecstasy and excitement of new life. Maybe we didn’t get to the things on my List. Maybe all my Plans didn’t quite pan out. But I’d say letting go of all that disappointment and baggage was work enough for the pregnancy. I’m going to let it trump the list. I’m not going to carry that disappointment—from this pregnancy or the former ones—into this birth. I’m just going to trust my gut. Trust my body. Trust my husband. Trust the God who made us all and knows the depths of our pain and hope and disappointment. I’m going to trust this little person who has already brought so much light and life. And enjoy. Enjoy whatever comes. Enjoy it free of the weight of expectations and plans.

And really enjoy putting him in those ridiculously little and adorable Colorado Rockies socks.

Simple Blessings

2010-02-20T09:29:00.001-08:00

I’m sitting in a beautiful puddle of sunshine on my bed. I am alone in a quiet and relatively clean house. Baby boy is doing alien stretches inside my belly and sweetly responding to my words and pats. In a world where there is much pain and difficulty and confusion and in a year that has included many of these for me and those that I love, these simple pleasures mean the absolute world to me.

There is so much in my life to be grateful for. I live in a beautiful village as an expat in a foreign country. Sometimes this poses aggravating and even angst-inducing episodes, but mainly it provides adventure. It provides opportunity to think outside my ‘normal’ and begin to adapt to life in a truer, realer way. A way that honors my family more. Honors myself more. Honors life’s natural rhythms more. Besides, foreign though I may be, I have some of the greatest friends ever here.

Life doesn’t always afford opportunity to reach outside of our comfort zone. When it does, it can be quite lonely. Every once in a while—there are angels seen and unseen who swoop in to smooth the transition and welcome our hearts. ‘The Gang’ as they’ve come to be affectionately known in our house threw me a baby shower last night! Never mind that they don’t really do them here. Never mind that none of them had ever been to a baby shower until a South African woman at their school had one a few months ago. My friend Kelly decided that if I would have had one at home I ought to have one here! Louise and the rest of the girls pitched in and it was beautiful. We had traditional English tea foods—sandwiches and cakes and scones all served on red and white polka dot doilies with matching napkins. We drank wine (me just a little J) and of course tea. We played celebrity name matching and guess whose baby picture is whose (my mom was even contacted and brought along a baby photo of me on the sly). There were touches from my consulting sister. A card from a friend back home. And what Scott aptly dubbed ‘a haul’ of presents.

I would have never imagined any of this those first miserable months in South Croydon. But here I am, a year later feeling full and blessed and loved and included and really happy and content in my puddle of sunshine in Warlingham, Surrey, UK.

I remember a number of conversations with Scott in the early days here. They went something like, “How could God do this to us?!?! He really screwed up this time! What have we done to deserve this misery?!?! Why can’t we go home?!?!” and other uplifting and cheerful variations on that theme. I remember Scott saying, much to my complete annoyance and frustration—maybe this IS exactly where God has us. Maybe this IS a blessing and we just can’t see. To which my inner response—and even my outer one a few times—was, “I kinda want to punch you in the face right now, asshole!”

But you know what? He might have been on to something. Sometimes I wonder if we have to be brought completely outside of our comfortable, contented selves in order to be able to fully embrace the coming blessings. Sometimes the loneliness has to drain all the preconceived notions and former habits and assumptions away so the new, clean water of blessings and friendships can come in.

I’ve never loved snow so much as I did this winter. I had never been away from it long enough to know. I never enjoyed an hour or two stolen away to hang out with my mama until she wasn’t always available to get away with. I never loved shopping so much as when I discovered new little hole-in-the-wall boutiques in Portobello Road and got to take my shopping queen sister when she visited. I never enjoyed girlfriend time so much as when making girlfriends wasn’t automatic. Never gloried in the sunshine and baby-shoots of spring bulbs like I have after a winter of rain and grey skies. Never appreciated a hamburger so much as when my hubby stood in the rain and made me one because there wasn’t a hamburger joint on every corner nearby.

I’m learning that sometimes the things that are missing have to be missed long enough. Long enough to say goodbye. Even tearful, fit-throwing goodbyes. Sometimes they have to be missed long enough to allow us the creativity and openness to say ‘hello’ to new things. And somewhere in there, we find a contentment and gratefulness that doesn’t so much fill, as supersede the longings we felt before.

The sunshine is fading a bit, my boys just returned muddy and pink cheeked from their first session of ‘spring training’ at the park. I hear they’re looking like World Series contenders, but that’s another blog. I’m smiling. A content, happy smile. Not in any way ignoring the pain and difficulty of the world around and even in me, but also thoroughly enjoying the simple blessings of the right now of my life.

Our own little miracles continued...

2009-12-28T16:34:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite miracles this Christmas is all the time with my husband. Scott and I haven’t had 3 whole weeks together without work since he was on disability recovering from a brain tumor in 2002/2003. Since that wasn’t exactly a relaxing time filled with life and love I feel I can safely say this has been a big first. Three whole weeks.

When faced with three whole weeks stretching into the distance one makes all kinds of goals. “We’ll get the closets all cleaned out!” “Well take tons of long walks!” “Go running every day!” “Get lots of sleep and get ourselves in the habit of waking up early…”

Then you realize how much you’ve missed one another. You make love. You stay up late watching movies. You act like cheesy teenagers making mixes of love songs on your iPod. You say lots of things like, “How in the world did it get to be 1:30 am!?!?” And you know why. Because somehow three whole weeks reminds you what you knew way back when: That a lifetime would never hold enough days to spend together. And you relish in the miracle that you’re still together. That you’re still in love. That the other is still the one—the only one—you’d want to stay up until 1:30 am with over and over again.

The key to a man's heart...

2009-12-28T14:20:00.000-08:00

It just goes to show that no matter the culture—a man needs the right gear.

Of all of the presents I gave Scott this year I can definitely say the incense burner was the most unexpected. He loved it. A friend of his in Bahrain had given him a beautiful salmon colored jar of incense a couple of months ago. It smelled gorgeous, but there was no way to burn it. Great time of year for such a dilema!

He left it out on the table tonight while he ran to the Off License. When he got home the boys were rarin’ to go—it was something to do with fire after all!

Light the charcoal, sprinkle the incense, let things smell delicious. Seemed simple enough to me. But next thing I knew the boys were dressed in beanies and wellies, standing on the back porch over Scott’s camp stove, absolutely ecstatic about the prospect of lighting the charcoal over the stove in the great outdoors. Scott was giddy—a new toy AND an excuse to use the camp stove? Oustide? In the cold!?!? No matter that it’s not at altitude or used in conjunction with some sub-zero sleeping bags. It was fire. Over a tiny, expensive, titanium stove. And it was clearly deliciously delightful.

They brought the charcoal in and added it to the brass incense burner. Smoke drifted out the little star and moon shaped holes and it did indeed smell gorgeous. The boys (all 3 of them) had a great time carrying it to various rooms to spread the yummy smells. It was cuteness!

Boys need gear. Be it camping stoves or brass incense burners the right gear is the way to any man’s heart.

our own little miracles

2009-12-26T13:30:00.000-08:00

“…but this year it’s different for you and for me. Our own little miracle on our own little street. “

What a year. What a Christmas. What priceless, precious miracles. Sometimes I miss the forest for the trees so-to-speak. The miracles right in front of me. Somehow, this year has been different. So in the interest of noticing. Of being grateful. Of being present, I thought I’d share some of our miracles. Here’s one:

A couple of months ago Bridger said, “If the choice was London or Denver for Christmas, you’d definitely want to choose Denver! London is RUBISH for Christmas!” Some questioning revealed that the main factor was weather. As far as Bridger was concerned who in their right mind would want to spend Christmas in the rain instead of the snow?!

A week and a half ago a drive through the country to a friend’s house included a going through what is usually dubbed, “The Green Tunnel.” A gorgeous canopy of trees and shrubs trimmed to make a perfectly shaped tunnel. Bridger said, “Imagine if it were snowing. Then this would be the white tunnel, and that would be paradise!” Bridger told our friend that day, “It’s going to snow. I can FEEL it.” We all tried to be kind, but were gearing up for his heartache. But the next day, on our way home from an epic trek through the local woods we watched the first of the snowflakes fall. A miracle. Snow in London. Good ol’ ‘rubbish weather’ London. Not just a few wet flakes either, but what our English friends appropriately called ‘proper snow!’ Complete and utter joy filled the Anderberg house. A white Christmas in England!

When I asked B about it later he replied, “Yeah. I asked. I wrote it in my note to Santa. I bet Santa went to the Lord and said, ‘Hey Lord? Do you think we could do that for Bridge?’ and the Lord said, “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

I’m guessing that’s exactly how it went down, and I sure am grateful.

There's no place like the woods...

2009-11-16T13:51:00.000-08:00

I sigh and force myself into buttoned up multi-layers. Prodding and nagging the boys out the door and hoping it will help me leave too. Glad that ‘daily walk’ is written in bold on the day’s schedule and cannot be argued with. I’m cold and stuffy inside, and I don’t feel like going out.

We traipse through the village, past the back way to Blanchman’s, and almost miss the turn off of Bug Hill to our trail. Then all of the sudden I feel better. The steep path garners hilarious giggles and shouts as the boys try to stay upright but insist on running down full-tilt. We laugh at the funny Dr Seuss shaped mushrooms. We squeal and hold on to trees when the path gets almost slick enough to sled down. Who knew the woods held so much hilarity?

I marvel at the colors. Greens in all shades from dark and regal to lime-ish yellow. Reds so burgundy they’re almost purple and browns so rich they’re almost black. Yellow leaves not quite fallen. Bright winking holly berries. It’s a wood in autumn. Though granted a much longer autumnal process than this Rocky Mountain girl is used to.

The boys pick up sticks. Bridger lags behind. Fighting off pirates and playing the ‘two sworded man.’ Caid holds my hand, small and cool in my own warm one. He wields his stick and can’t decide whether it is a dagger or a long-knife. I am told it is most definitely not the same thing.

I love the squelch-squirch our wellies make in the mud and rotting leaves. The tear in the top of one of mine prevents me from measuring the depth of each puddle with the boys, but I am a judicial observer. Helping to decide which is definitely the biggest. No longer cold or stuffy we all unzip our jackets and unbutton our sweaters. My pockets are full of our beanies and we relish the wind in our faces.

Here’s the old man’s hut tucked away in the woods. There’s the ring of bright red mushrooms that Kelly said must have been put there by fairies. Even the sun peaks out for a few minutes to brighten up our magical woods-time.

Then all of a sudden we’re on the road again. Walking through the village to the next thing on the schedule for the day. But I am changed. The day has brightened. Deepened. I am a little more present and a lot more delighted. There’s no place like the woods...

Village Life

2009-11-09T08:31:00.000-08:00

A long walk in the country through beautiful woods and a farmer’s open field. A one-block walking trip to the Green to run my errands including: Salmon from the fishmonger. A deposit to the farmstand man for a turkey. No matter that he can’t understand why in the world I’d want one BEFORE Christmas. Mail some letters at the post office. Check out some books at the library. Then it’s home and a hot cup of tea.

Drop the boys with Alex’s Nana who graciously watches three sets of kiddos. An evening dinner with friends at Bagatti’s where each owner/host kisses me on both cheeks. Delightful gluten free pasta and even more delightful company. Hilarious rides home in the late hours full of screaching, laughing, and the sorts of jokes only old-friends really tell but new friends can still very much enjoy.

Sleepovers with warm cuddly boys while their daddy is away. Agitated almost seven year olds who finally curl up and pour their heart out with lonliness, and homesickness, and longings too heavy to bear. Sobbing and cuddling like he did when he was much smaller.

Spicy pumpkin cakes baked with helps from small hands. Yummy spicy smells and Christmas music blaring and copious cups of tea. Locking myself out of the house and running to the neighbors for a spare.

Fantastic fireworks experienced in bundle-up cold. Oo-ing and Ah-ing and delightful sparkly lights. Huge bonfires in the back ‘garden’ (not yard) with ‘jacket’ potatoes (not baked potatoes) and chili and mulled wine. Followed up by more cuddly sleepovers in Mama’s room.

Hurried breakfast and a uniformed Rememberance Day Parade. A friend's husband makes me emotional in his RAF uniform--recalling brothers also off fighting wars. Bridger marches proudly behind the band in his Cub Scout uniform. We are back at the Green. The local Vicar is leading a Rememberance Service. A woman is reading the names of Warlingham boys lost in the two Great Wars. A young girl in a school uniform places a poppy-wreath at the base of the memorial in the center of the Green.

I am full. Warm. Content. Included. Surrounded by love. And thankful beyond measure--in spite of my own homesick longings--for this village life we are leading.

Sawan

2009-08-27T14:11:00.000-07:00

I wrote a Thank You Note to the flight attendants. I felt compelled to after the fat American lady behind me made another snotty comment in her loud midwest accent.

Flight Attendant: What would you like to drink?

Snotty Lady: Water please

FA, nicely: Okay, I’m out it will be just one minute.

about 30 seconds pass while the FA helps the people across the aisle.

SL, a little louder and more than a little bit insistent: Can I HA-AVE some WATER?!?!

FA, still sweetly: Yes. I’m just waiting for it to come from the back. I’m out.

SL, 30 seconds later as she hands the FA back her water: I don’t like ice in my water!

FA says nothing. Takes the glass. Dumps the ice and refills it with tepid water.

SL: Thank yewe!

I heard it all and cringed. So I decided to write them a note.

Bridger loves planes. When we took off he grinned a huge grin and said, “We’re flying! I love flying! I didn’t expect to get to fly today! That’s a treat!”

I did actually expect to fly today. Scott had booked me a bereavement ticket to fly home to my Papa’s funeral. He’s been battling cancer and had slipped into a coma Saturday night. Sunday night he passed away, peacefully. With my mom, his only daughter, by his side.

But here I am. Flying not towards Oklahoma City where I planned to honor the life of an old man sick with cancer who we knew was on his way home soon, but instead to Denver, CO, to honor a young man who suddenly, inexplicably, is gone.

It’s funny, Bridger’s comment about flying because in the wake of such tragic circumstances he’s so cheerful. Seeing the sliver lining. “We get to have an adventure today! That’s fun!” Finding the adventure and fun is just what I imagine Sawan would have done. He was always a glass half-full kind of a guy.

This morning as I ran to ask a neighbor to look after the house and mail while we were away Caid approached Scott. The tears flowed as he fretted about never being able to learn to surf. He had always planned to learn from Uncle Sawan.

Sawan loved to surf. He grew up in Hawaii and always had great stories to tell about life on the islands. Picking pineapples when they were ripe (apparently they turn a bit orangey-brown on the outside). Scaring his mom to death when he fell asleep on a bus the first time his mom let him go alone and rode it all the way past the end of the line--to the other side of the mountain--before he’d realized his mistake. Swim team escapades. A bad jeep accident. Hilarious 80s hairdos.

He and Caid had a special connection, and I always assumed there’d be a lot of things he’d learn from Uncle Sawan. They looked similar. Their hair faded to the same brownish/blonde with frosty tips when they’d been in the sun. They had the same brown suntanned tone to their skin. They both loved to cook. They both love all things water. Sawan was an amazing fly fisherman. Pulling as many as 30 fish out of holes from which other guys could only coax a few. I’ve watched him do it. On my 30th birthday a bunch of folks threw a surprise party for me at a cabin in Montana. Sawan helped Caid catch some fish and showed him how to pull them out of the water and even let him hold one. One of my favorite Caid photos is of that weekend. Proudly holding a fish, standing in the creek with his Uncle Sawan.

One of the pride and joys of the last few years for Sawan was the weekend he spent volunteering for Casting for Recovery. His mama died of breast cancer a few years ago. As a son of a single mom he was so close to her and you knew the pain was still so fresh. His eyes would sparkle and light up as he told story after story of his weekends with the women recovering from breast cancer and how he’d help them land a huge fish.

He always had his digital camera with him and like a true fisherman he loved to tell fish stories and show the photos of the fish he’d caught on his latest early morning trek to the mountain streams. But it was those photos of the sweet ladies in pink hats he was always the proudest of. Holding up their fish with him standing beside them in his waiters. I wept this morning as Caid buried his head in my chest and said, “Oooooohhhh! Now I’ll never learn to fish.” May that not be true. May Sawan’s legacy and passion for fly fishing live on.

I loved to cook with Sawan. We’d stand in my mom’s kitchen and berate her lack of good knives and garlic and laugh and tell stories and improvise great dinners or brunches. Adding funny gluten free ingredients to thicken the gravy. Making fancy deviled eggs. Kick ass salads. Damn that man could make a good salad.

It felt from day one that Sawan had always been apart of our family. His passion. His hilarious story telling--a favorite pastime of us Hoggatts. He fit. I loved him very much. I remember the relief and excitement I felt one night as the topic turned to birth--my particular passion--and he began to relate stories of his own Hippie midwife mama. He attended a lot of births with her, and he’d back up what I know sometimes feels to the rest of my family like my mad assertions. It was such a special connection with him. But then again it wasn’t hard to connect with Sawan. He was always so open. So honest. So real about his life and his journey--the good parts and the bad.

So it made sense to me today, as I heard Snotty Lady berate the Flight Attendant to write a little note. Just to say thanks for smoothing the journey. For bringing me extra water when my buckets of tears left me really dehydrated. For being sweet to my boys. For doing what they do. What I imagine Sawan’s mama would have done.

She was a flight attendant. I loved the stories he’d tell about trips they’d take to crazy far off places. I always thought it was cool to hear about the tickets she’d get him for cheap when he got older and the exotic places he went. The coffee he’d drink at a little hut on some distant beach. The seedy hotel that allowed him to stretch his money a little further and stay a little longer.

I imagine they’re up there right now. Visiting exotic reaches of heaven. Laughing, telling stories. And I can’t wait to someday hear about all the fish he’s catching with the ultimate Fisherman of all.

If you'd like to learn more about Sawan, attend his funeral, or make a donation to his memorial fund please visit www.sawannail.com

Day 1

2009-07-25T03:38:00.000-07:00

Day 1 of our staycation. Scott left town this morning, and I have determined we are going to start acting like we're on Summer vacation! Gave the boys the choice of 1) driving to Brighton to be at the seaside and find a fun new adventure, 2) Hever Castle's playground and water maze with picnic, or 3) go to Hyde Park/Kensington Gardens to the Peter Pan Playground, Princess Diana Memorial Fountain, etc. They enthusiastically decided "THE CITY!!!"

So we've made a picnic of hummus sandwiches, cucumbers, nuts and strawberries. Swimsuits and sand toys are packed. We've all had a shower and we're headed in! Good times ahead for all I'm sure!

2009-07-21T08:06:00.000-07:00

June 25th, 2009

I have this thing when I travel about “wandering around.” It annoys me. Walking forever with no particular destination searching for something, but who knows quite what. It sounds romantic, but usually I end up with sore feet, low blood sugar, and a really cranky disposition. It’s the stuff of epic marital fights. I’m anti-wandering around.

Today I laid in my bed after Scott went to work just relishing. The perfectly weighted covers. The luxurious pillows. The soft sheets. The gorgeous decor. Mostly just the entire morning stretched out before me with nowhere in particular I needed to be and no one in particular to look after except myself. A long shower. Time to pluck my eyebrows. Then onward--to wherever I wanted to go.

And you know it’s funny, but I found myself wandering around. Just walking with no particular destination. Searching...mmm, maybe for breakfast, but mostly for I don’t know what.

Before I knew it, I was standing the queue at Berthillon on Île Saint Louis. I had un double cornet de glace avec chocolat et café. Delicious. Then un baguette au jambon et au fromage from the guy with the Obama/Biden sticker on his counter. I ate my ice cream watching a couple practice yoga on the one of the little stone outcroppings along the Sienne. Now I am eating my sandwich and watching kiddos play on the playground behind the Notre Dame Cathedral.

It smells like cigarette smoke and kicked up dust and something in between soap and hairspray. I can hear the squeak of swings that need to be oiled and church bells and the high, whiney engines of scooters. The ting ting of bicycle bells and children’s squeals and the passionate sing-song of the French language being spoken all around me. I’m captivated. I want no other destination than this. I know the “something” I was searching for--this gorgeous and perfectly satisfying smorgasbord of humanity. Mmmmmmm...

One of the lucky ones

2009-07-19T08:55:00.000-07:00

There’s nothing like Paris. 9:30 arrival on the Eurostar. Packed and stinky metro ride then walk to the hotel. A passionate quickie. A shower. Change our clothes. Then head to the restaurant for dinner reservations at 10:30. Dinner is fabulous. Pink champagne and melon avec jambon. Sweet and salty lamb and then a glorious crème brûlée. Delicious for certain, but it’s the ambiance that really captures. It’s hard to believe it’s Wednesday night. Streets and cafes packed to the gils on a weeknight. The women in black eighties-style dresses, or jeans with soft and feminine white peasant tops. Fantastic bags and fancy flip-flops. The men with wild hair and trashy T-shirts. Worn out chucks or Euro-style black leather half-boots. Everyone is smoking and drinking Rosé. The pretty hostess gets an entire line of traffic to wait for her guests taxi, “Duex Minutes!” she signals and there’s nary a honk as she sends the guests on their way.

Everyone’s friends stop by and by the end of the meal the waitstaff are all smoking and drinking as they clear up. A huge table is put out front under the propane heaters and fills quickly with proprietors and customers and friends. I’m reminded why this has been such a hot bed of art and philosophy and writing. I wish my French was good enough to pull up a seat and join in the passionately laissez-faire exchange.

Instead we walk back to the hotel through an ancient church courtyard. My heals make a nice clop-clop accompaniment to the giggles and moans from the couple making out against the wall. Geraniums trail down from every window and some 20-something immigrants are playing football in the the empty market grounds. It’s 1 a.m. and cigarette butts litter the ground and revelers are starting home. Not quiet, by any means, but quieter. I feel fabulous in my black dress, but my feet are unaccostomed to heals. I fall into bed feeling like one of the lucky ones.

What a night.

Sunshine and Warmth

2009-07-19T08:06:00.000-07:00

I wrote this blog entry on June 25th--right before temps went up into the high 70s/low 80s. It was plenty hot--not nearly as hot as I love summer to get, but then again there’s no air conditioning either. Plus the humidity adds to how hot it feels. Suffice it to say I loved wearing my flops every day. Last night at a neighborhood BBQ however, it was so cold I could see my breath. Sigh...

I have a sunburn today. A nice rosy glow which feels a bit like an admonishment and more than just a little ironic considering I don’t know what I was thinking. Making assumptions most likely, and you know what assuming does.

It started to worry me when my English neighbors described the barely 70 degree weather as “hot.” So I looked it up. For England, that is hot. Days in the high 70s are rare and it almost never gets up into the 80s.

I was fit to be tied. WHAT?!?! WHAT?!?! In their so called “hot” days I’m still wearing lambskin boots and wool sweaters--not to mention the down vest! I know it seems minor, and perhaps I am overreacting, but this Colorado girl has come to love her 300+ days of sunshine per year (here they measure it by the hour--God help me!). I thought the last two summers by the pool were just about heaven. It’s been tough. It was just heating up when I left Denver this last visit. To return to the cool temps this side of the pond and learn it isn’t going to get any better? It’s a bit much to bear. Add to that the lingering feeling of coolness I have felt in my relationships and encounters with English people and well...I was having one of those weeks.

Saturday was the Warlingham Village Fair. I wore a wool sweater and my down vest for crying out loud. I was such a grump on the way there that Scott asked me if I maybe needed to go home until I could be sweet. “NO!” was my ever-so-gracious reply.

The boys had a pony ride and won some plastic weaponry in the hook-a-plastic-Dalmatian game. Then our neighbor Kelly ‘roped’ us into doing the tug-of-war. A short while later we were stretched out on the grass chatting away like old friends with our fellow teammates. The boys joined in quickly with their sons and daughters. By the end of the day we had played badminton and even BASEBALL!! with our new friends in the park, got rained on, sustained a few injuries, and what do you know--got sunburnt.

We’ve been to play again at Kelly’s this week. Another sunny English day that saw the boys splashing in the paddling pool and having tea on the grass with their friends. I woke up this morning with another sunburn. A pink nose and a new perspective. Maybe it’s not quite as cold here as I thought.

EWWWW!

2009-07-04T16:57:00.000-07:00

A woman ought to be able to walk barefoot through her own effing house. A house she regularly vacuums, I might add. A woman ought to be able to run downstairs in the semi-darkness to collect stuffed animals for her young sons without fear of squishing her heal squarely on top of a nasty, slimy slug. I don't care who you are, or what part of the world you live in--that ain't right.

Top Five Favorite Baseball Moments of All Time

2009-06-12T23:19:00.000-07:00

When it comes to baseball I'm no expert, but I do pretty well. Especially for a girl. I know what a Fielder's Choice is and I can explain the Dropped Third Strike rule. I'm less a baseball fan than a Rockies Fan, and there's not many places in the world I'd rather be on a cool June night than at Coors Field. I was there tonight with Bridger, Caid and several members of my fam and it got me thinking about how the Rockies have shaped me as a mom and about my Top Five Favorite Baseball Moments of All Time.

The Wildcard Tie-breaker game of 2007 certainly comes to mind. Watching Matt Holiday slide across home and into history. That was one hell of a baseball moment. Thousands of fans screaming, yelling, celebrating. One shining moment of total unity and community as we all let loose our emotion and joined in a collective, “WOO HOO!” I loved watching my son Bridger. Four years old that summer. Able to name every player on the roster including their name, number, and position. He could recognize them all by number and was often our point guy—“Hey Bridger? Who’s number…?” Didn’t matter who it was he could tell you.

The exhaustingly fantastic 21 wins out of 22 at the end of 2007. Sure there were several games, but that was a ‘moment’ in Rockies fan history we’ll never forget.

The Allstar game of 2004. We let Bridger stay up late. The image of his chubby toddler body squatting to be the catcher, winding up as the pitcher, swinging his imaginary bat as the hitter—it’s indelibly printed in my mind. Dressed in pin striped pajamas and sporting his Rockies cap and his glove. He stayed awake until the very end of that game. 10:30pm and he wasn’t even two years old. After we put him to bed, I hopped into the shower where my water broke. Caid was born later that night. Kincaid Joshua Anderberg—named Kincaid after a character in one of my favorite books, The Brothers K. A fantastic baseball book if ever there was one.

A game one night in July 2002. I don’t remember who we played, but I’ll never forget the two cutie pie little Rockies fans I sat next to that game. Aged approximately 3 & 5. Rockies t-shirts and ball caps. I’d just had THE ultrasound that morning. The one where I was told the little newborn sized red gingham dress with the cherries on the front wouldn’t be needed—we were having a boy. WHAT?!?! I wasn’t sure what in the world I would do with a boy. I was shocked—and worried. Over and over again the little boys next to me would yell, “Laaaaaaarrry WALK-ER!” They stayed for the whole game and it wasn’t just for the snacks. They clearly loved baseball. Those boys gave me hope. Maybe being a ‘boy mom’ wouldn’t be so bad after all.

If you had told me then that one of the biggest heart aches for our family in moving to London would be leaving our beloved Rockies, I would not have believed you. I remember the day Bridger asked, "But Mom, why would we move to London when the Rockies play HERE?" I wouldn't have believed it would be their once anti-baseball daddy who would get the projector all rigged up this year and make everyone dress in Rockies duds for the first game of the season watched so many thousands of miles away. How could I have known then how wonderful it would be to snuggle up to my little boys every morning as we check scores and stats and watch highlights on my iPhone from the games the night before. That gingham dresses would pale in comparison to dozens of Rockies tshirts and adorable Rockies uniforms. That the little boy in my womb would cry when his favorite players got traded and check the standings every single day.

I think the 5th ‘Top 5 Moment’ would be tonight. Sitting between my little Rockies fans. Dressed up in their full baseball regalia. “Laaaaaaaaarrry WALK-ER” has been replaced by ‘TU-LO! TU-LO! TU-LO!’ but the sentiment is the same. Two little boys. Two cutie pie brothers. One stoked to learn the difference between a safety squeeze and a suicide squeeze and to see Ubaldo pitch 9 innings. The other with a Rockies flag he’d bought with hard-earned chores money. He turned to me at one point and said, “Isn’t this a GREAT game?!?!” I thought, "Yep!" This is a great game. It might be just a baseball game to everyone else, but to me it’s the thing that brought me together with my boys. The game that made being a ‘boy mom’ one of the “Top 5 Greatest Things of All Time.”

Alexandria, VA

2009-05-30T12:31:00.000-07:00

There’s just nothing like reuniting with old friends. The taxi drops you off at the front door and you pick right up where you left off. Someone to laugh at even the stupidest of your jokes. Who chuckles at your silly dances. Knows you love margaritas. Picks up blue corn chips at the store to have waiting for you.

Old friends who sit on back porches--no matter where in the world the back porch sits. Talking, praying, laughing, or crying. Pontificating. Listening. Asking the hard questions and knowing when to just leave you be. Recommending good books and stupidly hilarious movies. Challenging your thinking. Expecting your best and accepting you in your worst.

Outdoor cafes line the side walk of the small Virginia town where they live. Shorts and sundresses the uniform of the patrons. Pitchers of sangria and margaritas the size of your head. The parks are full of dozens of strollers toting sun-hatted cutie pies with sippy cups and sleepy chubby cheeks. Flower beds are filled with elephant-eared hostas and waxy leafed day lilies, variegated grasses and a star-flowered tree I don’t recognize but instantly love.

The Dairy Godmother on the main street serves up ‘nostalgic treats,’ and I feel like I’ve been enjoying them everyday since I got here. This little town takes me back to my Oklahoma childhood. Old school houses with front porches. Porch swings and gliding chairs with people actually sitting in them! Flowering trees and fresh-cut grass that smells to my heart like bike rides and ice cream trucks.

The air is sticky and damp. The rain comes down warm and it makes me want to run outside in my swimming suit to make stick-dams in the gutter. Laughing and splashing and then wrapping up in towels on the front porch and eating popsicles when it cools down. I find myself going barefoot and wishing to goodness I could do it every day of my life.

We eat hamburgers and kick-ass french fries. Guacamole and homemade salsa (with the yummy blue corn chips!) Tacos and sodas and Heinz catchup. I have a Dr. Pepper for old times sake.

People say “good mornin’” and “how you doin’?” and “nice day, isn’t it?” and it almost makes me cry with relief. These too, these smells, and sounds and foods and spoken phrases are like old friends. I say, “Well, thank you! How you?” and “Sure is a gorgeous day we’re havin’!” and it feels like picking up right where I left off.

Swimming Lessons

2009-05-18T08:19:00.000-07:00

Smooth and slow strokes, Bridge. Smoooooooth and sloooooooow. When you jump into the pool and panic, your lungs go ‘CCCCRRRRRRKKKK’ and you can’t breath! The dog paddling takes you forever to get where you’re going. If you can relax, go smooth and slow, you actually get there quicker!

So as soon as we got home I was freaking out. Okay, truthfully I started freaking out in a little square in Barcelona over tapas. Realizing the postcards had not/would not get written let alone sent before we headed out. The weight of preparing to go Stateside descended. Visions of the mountains of laundry dominating my thoughts. “Four weeks away from Scotty” blinking like an obnoxious neon sign in my not-so-subconscious. So I did what any normal person would do—I started dog paddling like mad.

Me: Good one! Did you notice that? You got there so much quicker that time!
B: Yeah, cause I started to dog paddle and I just thought, ‘Relax! Slow and smooth, slow and smooth, slow and smooth.’

I did laundry all day. Load after load. One right after the other. Tying up loose ends on the computer. Once in a while trying to escape into the world of facebook and then beating myself up for it. I vacuumed. I straightened. I was a tight, angry ball.
I went to see my osteopath for an adjustment. He said my body was really tired. He asked me if I noticed that I was flinching every time he moved my muscles. Said it seemed like, “Mum’s not taking good care of herself.” He was right and I felt my shoulders lifted in a tight ‘shrug’ like I was bracing myself for something.
I fought with Scott. I told him the weight of the world was on my shoulders. We made a list of what specifically I did feel was on my shoulders, and I was astounded and embarrassed and frustrated with myself—somehow I really had taken the weight of the world on my shoulders. The number and magnitude of the things I was carrying? Goodness. It’s a wonder I could stand up.
We manage to get everything but the socks and underwear packed before bed but still the next morning I was exhausted. Angry. Sad.

B: Mom, I’m going to swim all the way to the other side this time! I can do it!
Halfway over he stops and panics and swims to where I am standing. Spluttering for just a second. Then he says: “I just needed a little break!” as he heads to the other side.

We wake up to little boys snuggling in our bed. Scott sends them to play and holds me tight. I am tight. Distant. He persists. He makes gently makes me look him in the eye. He smoothes out the furrows between my eyebrows with his fingers. I splutter. I move my arms and legs fast. I’m getting nowhere. He holds tighter. He nuzzles me and hugs me. I try smooth. I embrace slow. We make love and all of the sudden I can breath.
I come downstairs and we listen to the Valentines 2009 mix. I cry. I’m going to miss him so much. It occurs to me how blessed I am to feel that way and how much hard work and perseverance got us to that place.

B: I did it! Smooth and slow just like you said! Did you see me?!?! I got ALL THE WAY to the other side! I am awesome!

We quick get dressed and head into the city. There’s nearly a hiccup—several lines of the tube aren’t running. And we flounder around. I find myself spluttering. Then I relax. Smooth. Slow. We go outside. We grin at each other. “Want to figure out how to ride the bus in this city?” It’s great fun. Orienting. Out in the open. We can breath.
We have an old school Children’s Book Store date. Bridger and Caid are excellent additions to the ritual. We visit Borough Market—my favorite London place. We eat yummy treats and walk around in the scads of people. We go home and play baseball. We read Winnie the Pooh. We pack. We go to bed late.
The next morning on the way to the airport Scott says, “I think you’re going to need to get up every morning and decide not to carry anything that is not yours. There will be plenty to pick up. You go three days of picking stuff up and you’re going to be a wreck.”

Smooth and slow. If you can just relax…you actually get there quicker.

Barcelona Highlights Days 3-5

2009-05-18T07:48:00.000-07:00

Day 3
THE BEACH!
Playing in the sand with sand toys and plastic bags (who knew they could be such perfect sand tools!).
Eating avocados with our fingers and no knife.
The boys running through the showers instead of swimming at the first beach because the waves were too strong.
“Laps” as Bridger called them into and out of the sea over and over again holding hands (at the second beach).
La Fonda again for dinner with yummy Prosecco, paella, doting waiters and the bonus of an unexpected evening with Scott!

Day 4
Churros and chocolate.
Mercat de la Boqueria again for breakfast.
Tummy aches and subsequent naps at the hotel.
Rallying and heading back out.
The Teleferic! A gondola ride the boys were totally stoked about with great views of the city.
The Montjuic Castle.
B’s game at the Military Museum—“Okay, which cannon would you choose? Now choose your armor. Ooooo! This is my sword!”
Meeting Scott at the top of the hill for another unexpected evening to spend together.
Dinner at Silenus—a great find by Scott even though I had resigned myself to the night being ruined.
Catalunya Square shut down for the Barca/Madrid game. Thousands of fans everywhere cheering and excited!
The taxi driver who illegally drove us out of the Catalunya Square are (all the streets were technically shut down and there were riot police everywhere).
Proof that it DOES always work out.

Day 5
Bonus time with Scott.
The Market on last time!
Tapas in a little square in the rain.

2009-05-13T01:30:00.000-07:00

Barcelona is delicious. Mango-coconut juices and salty stacks of every kind of nut. Soft and spicy paella spiked with gigantic prawns and succulent bits of pork ribs. Smooth avocados peeled and eaten in the sand and smooshed all over our faces and underneath our fingernails.

The uncles and aunties ruffle the boys hair and help them with their tickets on the metro. The abuelas wink and the grandfathers chuckle and lift them into seats on the bus. The boys play their part—charming everyone with their sincerest attempts at por favor and gracias.

The sound of the waves crashing against the sand. Chubby dark skinned beauties squealing with delight. Rolled ‘r’s and the passionate music of spoken Spanish and Catalonian.

I’m getting better at this. I had no plan when we arrived. Only a few pages hastily printed at 11:30 pm the night before we left. But each day we have an idea and we follow our noses and our instinct to out of the way xocoa shops and cool squares with fountains and random jugglers.

I let the boys teach me about being present. Stopping at every pet stand on Las Ramblas—proving that just because you’ve seen one does not mean you’ve seen them all. Making games in the hotel room and at restaurants and to help pass the time when we go the wrong way and have to walk a long way back.

They teach me about living with reckless abandon. Throwing themselves in the sand fully clothed to make ‘sand angels.’ ‘Ah come on, Mama! It’ll be fine!’ B said when I declined. They climb to the very top of the rope structure and then shout, ‘Look at me, Mama! I’m not even holding on!’

We see lots of important things and decide that perhaps Gaudi’s greatest contribution to art and architecture is providing the perfect place to play tag.

Concessions and compromises are made. Bridger does not have to hold my hand, but he does have to walk right in front of me. Caid can play with the random card board box—soaking it in the waves and tearing it into tiny pieces—so long as he promises to throw it all away when he is done. He does throw it, without being reminded.

We improvise. Plastic bags—not store bought toys—end up being the tool of choice in the sand. The boys run through the beach-shower ‘sprinklers’ since the waves are too strong for swimming. We all four sleep in on king sized bed instead of two doubles. There is a pull out single bed, but even big boys don’t want to be left out of the snuggling cuddle fest. (A fact I discovered after sensing some sniffles from the little bed after lights out. Me: B, are you alright? B: um…yeah. Me: Is something wrong, Beast? B: It’s just that…no, nothings wrong. Me: Oh sweety, what’s the matter? B: (crying) Well, I just want to snuggle with you all night too! Me: Oh good! Will you please? I was hoping you would!)

We miss Scott during his 9am to 2am schedule, but we’re so thankful to be here. To have a nice hotel. To snuggle up with him when he gets in. We take lots of pictures to keep him updated on our day.

We fall deeper in love. With travelling. With a new culture. With one another and our own unique expression of family.

What a life.

2009-05-11T15:20:00.000-07:00

I am in love. With a new city. Barcelona, to be exact. I knew it was going to be a match made in heaven when we stepped off the plane into the damp, sea-salty air. We dropped our bags off and headed out. It’s so…European. Mmmmmmm…that is the resounding emotion. My senses are filled to the brim and every one of them gives a resounding, mmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

It smells good. A mixture of dust and sea air and cigarette smoke. Dirty bodies and car exhaust and unbelievably yummy food. It smells like LIFE and people and…mmmmmmm. It tastes good. The fresh fruit juices at the market. The cava served freezing cold from an ice bucket at my side. Everything drowning in olive oil. And the paella—oh the paella! It feels good. Bustling and busy, but no one in a bad mood. The waiters tease my boys and tousle their hair and give them a million candies on their way out the door. The grandmothers on the subway wink at Caid and ask questions in Spanish and praise the boys’ attempts at ‘por favor’ and ‘gracias.’ It sounds good. I’m thinking I need to learn to speak Spanish. I love the passionate sounds all around us. The tiny horns of the millions of scooters. The kids and the dogs and the vendors and the tiny chicks in their cages along Las Ramblas.

Highlights from Day 1:
Playing tag among the columns at Gaudi’s Park Guell.

Picking out the different ‘stories’ told by the Nativity Façade at La Sagrada Familia. Bridger loved this and begged for ‘more stories.’

Watching the boys jump off benches. Making friends with the locals and playing football with their ball at the playground.

The walk along the sea front and incredible dinner at La Fonda. YUM!

The sea! Including squishing our toes in the sand. ‘Sand Angels’! Uproarious giggles as we tried to let the waves just barely lick our toes. The boys absolute delight at seeing the water.

Falling exhausted into bed (3 of us in the king sized bed and one on the little pull-out couch bed).

Highlights from Day 2:
Beginning and ending the day in the hotel pool. Including watching the boys’ ‘moves’ as they jumped to me in the deep end over and over and over again.

Mercado de la Boqueria. Avocados the size of small melons. Mounds of the most beautiful fresh fruit I have ever seen. Nuts and chocolates and fresh fruit juices to die for!

Our yummy dinner of fruit and avocados and nuts on the floor of the hotel room.

The boys’ amazing cheerfulness and resilience even though we kind of wandered around a lot as I got lost several times.

Can’t wait for tomorrow!

Spring

2009-04-16T03:04:00.000-07:00

“It’s spring fever. That is what the name of it is. And when you’ve got it, you want--oh you don’t quite know what it is you want, but it just fairly makes your heart ache, you want it so!”--Mark Twain

I’ve got that. The heartache. The longing for I’m not sure what. A day with sunshine finds my heart leaping and rejoicing and both the present and the future seem so bright. A day with overcast clouds always makes me want to stay in my jammies and sometimes sends me into fits of depressed self examination--not to mention fear and uncertainty. Such is the reality of April, I suppose. Such is the reality of a new season in a new land.

Spring here is beautiful. First there were blankets of waxy green leaves poking up here and there in huge clusters in the grass. Nettles appeared on the bridleways and public footpaths along with something that reminds me of parsley. The waxy green leaves turned out to be crocuses. Mass amounts of purple and white and yellow all blooming right there in the middle of the grass in parks and yards all around. So cute and so helpful. They whispered to me the secret, “Don’t worry! Spring is around the corner!” When the daffodils bloomed I was beside myself with the sheer beauty. Hundreds and thousands of daffodils all blooming--a little more intentionally planted mind you--but right there in the middle of the parks. By the time the azalias and apple trees put on their blossoms I started to hope. Hope that I might come to like and appreciate and even ENJOY this new country we live in.

Winter here was wicked. Cold and wet and the sun shone for such a very short period of time every day. All of the sudden it was March and I felt I’d been under a rock since Christmas. Perhaps that’s why the blogs were so few and far between. I couldn’t bring myself to do much except move through the days and weeks with one foot in front of the other. We moved of course. We began our homeschooling journey. We had company from the States. That’s a ton, I now realize. Still, somehow I felt stuck. Dormant. Then the crocuses came, and I began to understand the life of a bulb. The sense in the seasons. The need for the quiet and the dark. Maybe I too, could wake up and be brave enough to extend my fragile tendrils towards the sun.

I was sure for a while that the thing making my heart ache--the thing that I wanted so was home. This journey to England has not been easy. Loneliness. Depression. Questioning. Why did we do this again? Worrying. Wondering. So much to give up, and it is hard sometimes to see what I am gaining in exchange. What’s a few castles compared to the comfort and familiarity of an afternoon with my mom and sisters or the epic snow forts in the back yard. What is adventure compared to Opening Day at Coors Field?

It’s hard to even admit that it is hard. Sometimes I think people will judge me or be angry that I am struggling. “Look what you get to do!” the judge in my head says. “You should be thankful! Lots of people would give their right arm to experience what you are experiencing!” But if they knew, would they keep their appendages? Knew the loneliness of new rules in friend-making. Months gone by without coffee or lunch dates or girls night outs or backyard fire-pit evenings filled with good company and good food. Knew the pain in their child’s eyes when he realizes there are no friends to spend a holiday with and daddy isn’t even home. Knew the physical stress that comes with navigating a new culture’s grocery offerings and a new climate’s deep effect on the psyche. Would they do it if they knew that dates with spouses would be very rare? That there is no equivalent to Target and it’s difficult to find something as simple as a pair of little boy’s jeans?

Would I have come if I could have known? I always remember what Aslan says more than once to Lucy throughout different Narnia books. “No one is ever told what could have been.”

Still, here I am. It’s hard. It’s hard to sit at home while Scott travels the world. It’s hard to navigate new friendships. It’s hard to live in a country with so very little sunlight. But then Spring has arrived, and I feel myself beginning to awaken.

Awakening to the beauty of this climate. There are flowers absolutely everywhere and more to come! Many of the trees still don’t have their leaves but we have lettuce and sunflowers and tomatoes planted. Also it smells delicious. All fresh and loamy all the time after the rain. Plus the sun DOES shine--albeit not as much as in Colorado. Nevertheless, there is sunshine and overall I’d say the weather over the last 3 weeks has been nothing short of gorgeous!

Awakening to the culture and appreciating the differences. I quite enjoy the village life and the polite friendliness of the folks here. I’m learning to navigate it and am feeling more and more at home.

Awakening to a new way of being a family. Less people in our lives means less commitments. Less commitments means more time with one another. I’m learning to appreciate and enjoy these three men in my life in ways I’m not sure I would have without this adventure and this catalyst for time spent together. There are fewer buffers, but I find I need them less than I thought.

I’m also awakening to new friendships that are sprouting. Coming to the surface here in this Spring. We spent last Friday on a neighbor’s land to hang out with their ponies and horse and have a BBQ. We spent Saturday exploring a castle with a woman who is becoming a good friend and her fun husband who was great with the boys. Monday we met my old college buddy and her hubby at ‘Peter Pan Park’ and wonder of wonders--the sun came out! Four and a half hours of sand castles and make believe later the boys were still reluctant to leave and Bridger said there was no better place to be than in London. I smiled as I realized that right now, right that minute it was absolutely true. I didn’t want to be anywhere else.

I don’t know if I would have come, if I had known how hard it would be. I suppose it doesn’t really matter. I am here now. I choose to be here. I’m even enjoying being here. I’m breathing the clean air, and I’m pushing up towards the sun. I’m gaining nutrients from the local soil. I suppose you could say I’m blooming where I was transplanted.

Easter Alone

2009-04-09T18:08:00.000-07:00

‘J Cori Anderberg doesn’t want to be alone on a holiday.’ That’s what I’d like to write on my facebook status update tonight. But I don’t want to sound all pathetic and sad. Like someone fishing for an invite. Fishing for invites is the type of thing that eats away at one’s dignity. Or perhaps just one’s pride. Scott is Stateside for the next week and a half. I’m alone--well, without Scott--on a holiday. It’s such a lonesome prospect.

There are probably any number of folks I could hang out with. Any number of people I could give a ring and say, “Hey, whatcha doin’ for Easter? Mind if three of us Anderbergs tag along?” I’m sure I will. Call, I mean. I’ll suck it up and make a phone call or two or three. I’ll be brave. Right now though, I just feel sad and pitiful and it brings up all kinds of pain.

Once again, here I am...a foreigner in a foreign land. I’m so used to being the includer. It’s tricky being the one with the need to be included. Once again I’m leery, cause I still don’t quite know the rules. I am learning though that the rules are pretty important over here. An English friend had said they didn’t have plans either. I said we should do something. Then emailed and asked if they wanted to get together. She texted me today inviting me over Saturday. I’m stoked. I think we’re going to go to a castle and it’s supposed to be one of the good ones. We’ll have a great day. She’s super fun, and I love to be around her and her hubby and their little guy. But...well, I’m still without a gig for Easter. Nothin’ to do on a holiday, and I’m pretty sure the rules are that I don’t say, “couldn’t we do Sunday instead?”

Plus, I’m the mom. So I’m the one who’s supposed to make it special and fun. I realized on Wednesday that I had no plan. Not good. But not too big of a problem. What does one need but an Easter egg hunt and a couple of cute Easter baskets filled with plastic grass and Peeps?!? I even had a great idea--these cutie pie gardening tool bags with kid-sized tools they’d loved at the local garden center. Perfect for an Easter basket! Well, I looked everywhere for plastic eggs. No love. I went back to get the tool bags. No love there either. Plastic grass or Peeps? Fuggedaboutit. I can’t even find a UK ‘PAAS’ equivalent to color our eggs!

On the one hand the lack of uber-commercialization of holidays here is refreshing. Christmas was nuts, but it’s the only one that’s been like that. Easter, Halloween, Valentine’s Day--these all get a minor poster or two and an end-cap’s worth of confectionary. No big deal. I like that most of the time, but this time the commercial goodies were the only way I could think of to make the holiday seem even partially normal.

There will not be new polo shirts and cute shorts for the boys from Old Navy. There will be no brunch on the front patio at Mom’s eating Dad’s omelettes and Sawan’s divine deviled eggs. No sneaking gluten-filled bites of Ellie’s whoppit-biscuit cinnamon rolls with orange icing when the boys aren’t looking. There won’t be the traditional Cherry Knolls Easter Egg Hunt on Saturday with bucketfuls of fun toy-filled eggs and Starbucks coffee for the set-up crew. Or Grammie’s front-yard egg hunt Easter morning with gobs of penny and nickle and dime-filled plastic eggs and hints of “warmer, waaaaaaaaarrrrrrmmmmeeerrrr, warmer, oops! Colder, colder, colder.” No apres festivities Rockies game--either at the field or on my parent’s couch. Certainly no backyard-baseball. The best part of the day.

I’m lonesome. I’m homesick. It’s exacerbating as all get-out that Scott is gone too. Bad enough that I’m without the aunties and uncles and friends and neighbors that make a holiday what we’ve come to know it to be--now I’m without my partner and the boys’ dad.
Here is where I start to realize my need for perspective and realize I sound a bit like a whiner. My sister-in-law is without her partner and the daddy to her little boy and brand new baby girl. Plus he doesn’t get back next weekend, like Scott does. Such is the life of a soldier’s wife. I have a lot to be thankful for.

So, I’ve decided to hide the boys’ Easter baskets and print the clues on egg-shaped paper. There won’t be any plastic grass or Peeps, but they’ll love what I got them. I’m crap at omelets, but I am going to make deviled eggs. I may invite some folks over or ask if we can tag along. I’m not sure yet, but I’m trying not to worry. When Bridger and Caid realized that it was Easter on Sunday, B said, “We gotta make some plans! We need some decorations! Some good food. What do they eat here [in England] for Easter?” I smiled. There’s nothing like new traditions. And lucky, blessed me--I won’t be alone on a holiday.

Moving Day

2009-03-17T11:18:00.000-07:00

I actually wrote this blog a couple of weeks ago. No broadband has forced me to wait until today to post it. I have some new things to write about soon as well, so stay tuned!

I had the best weekend. It was such a delightful time! I spent the weekend watching my boys play together and chatting with friends and enjoying the beautiful weather and also moving! It seems so funny to declare a moving weekend completely delightful but it certainly was--from start to finish. Oh well, minus the cat pee incident, but I’ll get to that shortly.

We thankfully had a bit of relocation money socked away unspent. So we hired a ‘removal company.’ They came and packed everything Thursday. Extremely efficient and polite. We used Casey’s Removals--in case you’ll be ‘moving house’ in the Kent/Croydon area any time soon. I cleaned and directed and picked up keys to the new house and then freaked out about cat pee. Oh man.

We have the cutest new little house, but the previous tenants had cats. Nice enough cats. We met them. But goodness me, those suckers can really get their stink on. Specifically on the carpets and curtains. So we came over Thursday night to check out the new digs and I had a hissy fit about pee stains. ‘Wasn’t the carpet supposed to be cleaned? Maybe it was and it didn’t come out! What gets cat smell out of carpets. Probably nothing. Maybe it’ll never come out! Maybe we’re destined to be in toilet-smell land for the rest of our lives! Call the management company right now. What do you mean they’re closed?!? In the morning then! Wait, the movers will be to our house before they open! Oh no! The movers come tomorrow to load in all of our furniture and there’s nothing to be done. It’s hopeless. All is lost! Someone shoot me! Just shoot me now and put me out of my stinking misery!” The words ‘blithering idiot’ come to mind. Oh dear. Scott just sort of looked at me with that half-cocked grin that can SOMETIMES be so charming and politely mentioned that I may have lost my mind. I think the implication was that I was being a little high-maintenance. I think that everything else was going so smoothly with the move that I was grasping for something to freak out about. That’s what one does when one is moving, right? Oh well and...it really stank.

Anyway the efficient, polite movers came Friday morning and moved everything in. The management company said the carpets were cleaned and suggested Febreeze. I politely declined to mention it smells like ass and gives my youngest son croup. I don’t want the smell covered up! I want it GONE! But on to the pleasant, delightful part.

The weather Friday morning was absolutely gorgeous. Bright, sun-shiney, warm. I wished my flops weren’t packed. The boys ran like wild men in and out of the empty house, around and around the back garden and the front driveway. They decided the movers were bad gangsters and they were Batman and Robin faithfully defending Gotham. Sunshine does something to people--especially when one is deprived of it for so much of the time. Those stodgy, reserved English men played along! The four of them had just a ball. My favorite moment of the day though was leaning out the windows I was cleaning to see Bridger and Caid sitting in the sun on the back patio. Each with a sandwich in hand, Bridger reading Caid a magazine. So sweet!

One of the huge blessings of the weekend was the friends that helped out. That can be one of the best parts of a move. The sort of ‘barn-raising’ atmosphere. Folks around packing, loading, unloading, unpacking, cleaning, patching walls, and eating pizza together at the end of the day. Our move over here lacked all of that. Movers one day to bring everything to Montana for storage. A week later another set to bring everything to England. Us alone with the boys in an empty house wondering when and if we’d ever see our stuff again and what in the world we’d gotten ourselves into. Then living in an empty house (that we moved into sight-unseen) for almost 3 months. Learning to live without and wondering why in the world we’d shipped so much stuff when it did finally arrive. It was all very lonely and surreal.

This weekend was so different though! My friend Victoria picked the boys up at lunch time Friday and they had a blast playing at her house all day long. We finished up the day eating dinner with her and her hubby at their flat around 10:30 pm. It was such a great night! Then Saturday afternoon John and Paul showed up and helped put shelves together, and put things up on walls and unpack and play light-saber fights with the boys. We finished the evening with beers and yummy dinner and a great time talking. By the end of the day Sunday we had all but 1 box unpacked. Unheard of!

Somehow it feels like we’ve finally moved here. We spent six obligatory months in moving purgatory and we’ve finally paid our penance and can get out. Last week our house in Denver finally went under contract, we leased the condo for the next 12 months, and we moved to England. It feels like our life here is finally beginning. Now if I can just get the cat smell out of the carpets...

My Uncle Tom...

2009-02-13T17:21:00.001-08:00

...just turned 60. For his birthday we were all invited to Tahoe to hang out and celebrate. I sure wish I could have gone. Hanging out with that side of the family is nothing but laughs and hugs and hilarity. Every single time I do it I think, “Man, I gotta do that more!” Course hanging out with that side of the family also makes me say things like ‘gotta’ and ‘course.’

My sister says we’re half redneck. Half because one of our parents is a redneck. I suppose in some circles that’s a derogative term, but to me it just means hard workin’, fun lovin’, down-to-earth, genuine folks. My favorite song on the radio as a little girl was ‘Gimme a, gimme a, gimme a redneck girl.’ I remember riding in my dad’s Jeep listening to that song. I must have been 6 years old or so. Fun times.

We were invited to write something for Tom in lieu of our presence. I meant to and meant to get around to it. I thought about it for weeks. The problem is simple. One of the best things in the world is making Uncle Tom laugh. Any image my mind conjures up of Tom always include a beer in one hand and a huge smile on his face--probably because he was laughing at something someone said. He’s a ‘hoot’ and he gets a kick out of everybody. So back to the problem. I couldn’t think of anything funny to say. I wanted to come up with some hilarious rendition of this story or that. Really roast the guy on his 60th. I couldn’t think of one funny or mean thing to say.

Uncle Tom calls everyone ‘baby.’ It’s his favorite term of endearment--which is just such a great phrase for it. Cause when Tom says it you really do feel dear. It makes you feel like a million bucks.

Uncle Tom loves his wife. Delights in his children. Is good to his family both immediate and extended. Shows up. Works stuff out. Works hard. Treats people with genuine kindness. Loves a good beer and a good joke. He is just plain old wonderful. I’m so lucky to have him for an uncle.

I was thinking at Gran’s funeral how sad it is that we wait until folks are dead to say all the good things about them and reminisce about how much they mean to us. I was thinking how it’s just silly and ridiculous. Not more than a few hours after this thought Uncle Tom said to me in a rare quiet moment in the living room, “Cori, you are one of the best kids I’ve ever known. You’re a good kid. You’re a good niece. You’re a good daughter. A good mama. Seeing the way you are with those boys I imagine you’re also a good wife. I’m proud of ya.” Leave it to Tom.

Uncle Tom, you are one of the best men I’ve ever known. You’re a good man. You’re a good uncle. I don’t know about son, but I do know you’re the most amazing son-in-law I’ve ever seen). You’re a good daddy. Seeing the way you are with Bard I’ve always known you were a good husband. I’m proud to know ya. And I’m ever so lucky to be one of your ‘babies.’

Happy Birthday, Uncle Tom. Many happy returns of the day!

Global Biking

2009-02-10T15:00:00.000-08:00

I am a creative woman. Different. Unique. Not meant to fit a mold made for anyone but me. No one will think like I do. Love like I do. Mother or birth or cook or dream or even scream out at the world like I do. Others may be similar, and I may enjoy or detest their company as a result. But no one will ever be quite the same as me.

So then why in the world am I so concerned about how everyone else is doing it? The illustrious ‘thing’ that they are all doing? The more important question however, and the one that plagues my heart and disturbs my dreams: Why am I so concerned about how everyone else thinks I’m doing?

Motherhood, man. The constant balance of embracing your unique self and trying desperately to ignore the evil voices that seem to constantly whisper, “Are you sure that’s how you want to do that? Are you sure you’re doing enough? Oooooo...lost a few votes for Mom of the Year on that one!” Or my personal favorite, “Wow, don’t you wish you could be more like ___________?” Feel free to fill in the blank with names from my best mama friends to some lady in front of me at the super market who didn’t freak out at her kid. Never mind that her kid was not the one who just knocked down an entire display of boxed cereal, but still.

Just before the holidays, I came to the sudden and shameful realization that a lot of little boys around here that were younger than Bridger already knew how to ride a bike. I was overcome with guilt. “WE NEED TO GET ON THAT!!” I ever so graciously yelled at Scott. I wasn’t so subtle at communicating where I thought the primary responsibility for that bit of teaching lay. We spent several minutes talking about it, and being the persuasive rhetorician that I am I quickly had him wallowing in guilt with me. Some parents we were! Some legacy we were leaving. What were we spending time as parents doing if not teaching them essential skills like riding bikes!?! We’d spent so much time fixing up houses and focusing on moving that we’d somehow missed the forest for the trees. We were failing our children--big time!

Did I mention we decided over the Christmas break to homeschool the boys? A decision driven by several factors including: our naive underestimation of the incredible cultural adjustment moving to England would be, our desire to open up the opportunity to travel with Scott to his various assignments world-wide, and our concern over some behavioral and health issues we saw flare up in the boys that seemed to die down significantly after only a couple of weeks off of school. Never say you’ll ‘never’ do something. Karma is a bitch.

Overall I’m really enjoying it. It’s leant a cool focus and sense of purpose to my ‘mom-ing.’ It feels good to teach my boys to read, and count and add. I love cooking class and taking walks every day with them. I know there are some folks who think I’m weird, but those voices don’t haunt me. The voices I fear are the ones that whisper about how much better a homeschooling mom I’d be if I were ‘craftier’ or ‘earthier’ or if I had one bone of time-management skills in my body. I am not crafty. I only aspire to be earthy. And good Lord I don’t know how in the world it gets to be 7:30 every night without me having crossed even two things off my list.

I know, I know...I don’t need to be crafty to be a good mom or a good teacher. But...I subscribed to two homeschooling lists and well...these women are either dying natural wool yarns with blueberries to weave their own peace flags or teaching their children an instrument or even building chicken coops from scratch. I just feel, well...urban, first of all, and hopelessly inadequate. On another less earthy list it seems everyone has an ‘educational philosophy’ dialed-in and does 19 lessons a day all tied together by a central theme and all perfectly poising their children to attain nirvana, a full-ride to Oxford, and a firm standing in the global marketplace. I, on the other hand, spent 2 hours and about 2 dozen pieces of paper trying to figure out how to weave a construction paper heart ‘basket’ as a little craft today. I consulted FOUR different websites, swore a lot, and started balling before I did finally figure it out. Bridger was over it, and Caid just wanted to have the one I made rather than bother with his own. Big shocker.

Days like today are a roller coaster of questioning and feelings of inadequacy. Elation in the morning at Bridger reading (did you hear me say, READING!) me books in bed and our half-hour tickle war before breakfast. His exact quote after that was, “I hope we homeschool till I’m twelve.” Then the agony of craft time and that same child’s mumbled hints about the fun crafts they did at school and why don’t I call up his teacher and ask her or better yet send him back to school where they get to do really cool crafts EVERY day. Sigh...he wouldn’t perhaps be mirroring would he?

The night after the guilt-fest about the biking we were talking with our boys about the upcoming year. We posed the question “What are a few things we’d really like to do before 2009 is over?” I started with suggestions like sledding or skiing. Caid said he wanted to go to Spain and to Africa. Bridger said he wanted to learn at least one more language. “Maybe French,” he said, “or China.” I looked across the table at Scott and started to grin and cry at the same time. Maybe the boys didn’t know how to ride bikes, but maybe we weren’t failing so miserably at the legacy thing either.

p.s. I am happy to report that the boys are both riding bikes beautifully after just a few short lessons. Granted Caid stops by plowing into the closest fence or bailing off his bike and Bridger is the proud owner of a biking accident scar on his left cheek, but hey! we’re gettin’ there!