Family of Five

The Great Pulley-Swing Adventure

In which Boyish

and Turtle go swinging.

And poor duck is left behind.

Look At This

Skin, originally uploaded by texasgurl.

Sometimes she's so pretty it hurts me.

Vocabulary Lesson

estrange [i-streynj] verb (used with object), -tranged, tranging. 1. To turn away in feeling or affection; make unfriendly or hostile; alienate the affections of: The quarrel over their mother estranged the two sisters. 2. To remove or keep at a distance: Her move overseas has estranged her from her family. 3. To divert from the original use or possessor. [Origin: 1475-85; <MF, OF estranger; c. Pg. estranhar, Sp estrañar, It straniare <ML exstrãneãre to treat as a stranger. See STRANGE]

All Smiles

After school. And she made a friend, but as predicted, not the assigned one.

First Day of School

And so, so excited. She loves school, like her mama did, but she's shy in new situations, which her mama never was. She's there now and although I'm sure it's going well, I'm nervous. We were escorted to her classroom after the bell rang (the Head Teacher takes an actual bell down the playground and rings it), so that we could meet her classroom teacher and see where her room is. She has a male teacher again this year, and he was calling roll and asking the children whether they're having "school dinner" or "packed lunch." He asked Girlish as she walked in the room, and she was a bit confused about how she was supposed to answer, so she said, "School dinner," so quietly he had to ask her again. I fought down the urge, first to answer for her, and then, to sneak up to her seat and give her a little pep-talk. As he went down the roll after her, we learned that the standard roll-call exchange actually goes like this:

"Johnny Whitsteed?"

"Good morning, Mr. Guy. School dinner, please," or, "Good morning, Mr. Guy. Packed lunch, please."

The British are really rather proper compared to, "Here," which is what I used to say when they called my name. And please? Please.

Then Mr. Guy assigned Girlish a "friend for the day," so hopefully that will go well. I mean, we walked back by the front office with the assigned friend and Girlish to drop off the class roll, and although she didn't say a word to any of us, I'm sure she was just feeling shy, like Girlish was herself. I keep thinking about it though, wishing he could've assigned her a more talkative friend. But I didn't go back to the room to suggest that. That would be inappropriate--even I know that. I wouldn't want to hurt that rude little girl's feelings, right? Maybe that's the just the British way, to not say a word to your assigned friend.

Sigh. It feels like a long time until 3:15.

The Eff Word

The crosswalks here have a little barricade in the middle of the street, where you can stop for a moment to let traffic pass. Pedestrians have the right-of-way, and cars are supposed to stop and let you cross the moment you set foot in the street.

This morning, on our way back from our “practice walk” to Girlish’s school, we—that’s me, the buggy with Babe-ish in it, Girlish, and Boyish—stood in the crosswalk, in the middle of the street, while one, two, three, FOUR cars passed without stopping right in front of our toes. I finally sort of stepped out in front of one, muttering, “What the fuck? You’re supposed to stop!”

As we safely reached the curb, Girlish said, “That’s the word in the song I was telling you about? On Lunchboxing?”

“Lunchboxing” is a mix-CD made for us by a friend. Girlish loves it, except for the f-word song, which she skips.

“Right,” I said. “The f-word.”

“Is that your favorite word?”

“No, it’s not my favorite word.” (I don’t say it that much, I swear.) “But when four cars go by leaving me trapped in the middle of the street with three small children, I might say, ‘What the eff?’  It seems not-so-inappropriate to me in those circumstances.”

“Aren’t you supposed to say, like ‘eff you,’ or something? I mean, that’s how you’re supposed to say the f-word?”

“Well you don’t have to say ‘eff you.’ You could say that, but you could also say, ‘what the eff,’ or ‘eff off,’ or even, ‘he’s an effing idiot.’ The f-word is good for versatility. But you shouldn’t say it, of course, until you’re much older, like—” (I tried to think of a realistic age when kids might try out the f-word. 12? 13?—“when you’re 15, or something.”

“Mom, I don’t think I want to say the f-word.”

“Oh, yeah, right,” I said, realizing I was doing that thing with my kid where I talk too much and I'm inappropriately honest. “You shouldn’t use the f-word. Of course.”

Care Package

Today my doorbell rang at 7:30am (it’s what time my mail arrives) and Rod went down and retrieved a girnormous box from the Postman. In it were clothes for Babe-ish, who has outgrown almost everything I packed for her due to the delay in the arrival of our things from California, a cute outfit for Boyish, a cute outfit for Girlish, and for me: two gorgeous new pans. The perfect pans. The kind of pans you can never have too many of. I can’t wait, can’t WAIT to cook with them tonight. Girlish and Boyish stripped off their pj’s and got dressed in their new clothes immediately. Everything fits. Especially the pans. They look really really good on me (dontcha think?). Thanks, Mom! Thanks, Bella!

Sorry for the not-posting

Sorry for all the not-posting, everyone, but I have been busy. I am applying to grad school. Again. Not because I didn't get in the first time, but because unexpected events meant I couldn't go. See exhibit A:

Then, my planned deferral for this year got derailed by our decision to move to London. I posted about that here.

And I thought, you know, that I'd wait awhile before trying to do something again. Maybe take some photography courses in the meantime. But as the deadlines for the low-residency programs at Bennington and Warren Wilson rolled around again, I couldn't get it out of my head. I dabble in photography and blogging is fun, but a personal essayist I am not (ask Ann) and my photographic skills are pretty mediocre. Fiction is what I do best, and even if it's not good enough I'm still better at that than anything else. And so I have to give it a shot. To see what I can do if I REALLY focus on it, and give it the time and attention I never seem to be able to otherwise.

Really, no matter what it costs, I have to try. Because nothing else is as important to me--except maybe my chickens. And sometimes not even them.

Things I Miss

My pans. When oh, when will my pans arrive? Fiona left us a couple of pans, a few dishes, a mixing bowl, 2 cookie sheets and some flatware. Some odd glasses and mugs. I favor the one with sketches of Pooh Bear, not because I love Pooh, but because it is the largest. The pans are crap. I would have left them behind, too. They heat up, in like one spot, exactly where the burner is touching them, and despite the nonstick coating everything sticks to them and I have burned more in the last month than in the last ten years.

I miss my mugs. I miss the small brown clay one, round like a ball in the palm of my hand, with its rough exterior and carefully finger-painted stripes, its smooth green interior. I miss the blue clay one, with its faded suggestion of a dragonfly on the side, the one that feels as if it was made for my hand, fatter and thicker at the bottom and more narrow at the chipped rim, so my tea stays warm.

I miss my teapots.

My pans are Calphalon, by the way. They are thick and heavy and they get hot fast; they heat evenly.

I know I'm rambling but I also miss my clothes. I thought I brought enough to get by with Babe-ish, but she has outgrown just about everything in her drawers. And I miss our drawers.

I miss putting my children to sleep in their beds, and I wish I had their furniture so I could set up their rooms and put out their toys and make them more at home here.

I miss my books. My god, I really miss my books. I have a list of them that I use to make sure I’m actually reading all the books I buy, and today I was looking at that list and wishing I had any one of those books here so I could read them. I am working on a story about mental illness, told in the second person, and I need my Lorrie Moore, my Julie Orringer, my Mark Haddon.

Because I have been feeling this way, I have been calling the movers, trying to get some sort of status report on our things. I called before we left for Germany, trying to talk to “Dave,” some guy who was supposed to know how to help us. Dave was out, but he’d be back around 2:00. So I called back at 2:00, and Dave was busy, could he call me back? Sure, I said, leaving my California number--we have, via the marvels of modern technology, ported our old number so that it rings in our house in London. It couldn’t be easier, really for Dave and his people to call us back. So, of course, he never called.

When I returned from Germany, I called. Because of the time difference, I was able to call the night I got in, after taking one plane, three trains and a cab to get to our house. Dave was unavailable, could he call me back tomorrow?

I called on Wednesday, and Dave was—you guessed it—on the phone, and could he call me back?

Today, I had no illusions, really, that Dave might call. I called him, but I was prepared to tell Andy or Joe or whoever happened to answer the phone that I had called three days in a row, and twice last week, and I was prepared to wait for Dave to come the phone. Tell him it’s me again; tell him I’m waiting, please.

So, I talked to Dave just now, and he told me, yeah, he needed my address so he could send me a FedEx with some paperwork they needed.

I gave him the address and asked what sort of paperwork? “Oh, copies of your passports, a couple other things, then we can ship your stuff out.”

“Okay,” I said, not getting it, “Has it arrived in London, then?”

“No, ma’am,” he said, “It’s still sitting in our warehouse in Oakland.”

* * *

I could go on, obviously. I could tell you exactly what I said to him, about why no had one called me for 60 days to let me know they needed some “paperwork,” about how I had FedExed them money to expedite the shipment and had called them repeatedly, and was never told anything about “paperwork”; about how I was practically camping in an apartment with 3 children in London, waiting on our things, and even, about how my baby was fucking outgrowing her clothes waiting for them to arrive, and could he please, rather than making me wait on the international mail, just tell me what they needed, and work with me to expedite it so that our stuff could leave the mother-fucking dock, like, yesterday two months ago?

I am trying to get my head around this. I am getting ready to write some letters. I will not. Cry. I will not cry. I won’t.

Photogenic Germany

Germany is so beautiful, so photogenic, so—well, it’s what everybody says about Germany, so I’ll go on and confirm it—so sparkling clean. It really is. And even the dirty bits are rather lovely in a gritty sort of way, as you can see from the graffiti-ridden underground walkway above. Notice there's not even a gum-wrapper on the floor, and it looks as if someone might've just mopped it.

The symmetry of the landscape just begs to be photographed, everywhere I’ve been. Even the pavement is pleasing to the eye:

We are here to for our dear friend Ingo’s mother’s 60th birthday bash, and we have been hanging out at her lovely (photogenic) home, eating like kings and queens and trying to keep our chickens from destroying the furniture. They set a magnificent table with creamy noodle-y food and local wines, and there is been coffee and dessert after every meal. My kids think they’ve died and gone to heaven. These are some shots I took in her house:

I speak about three words in German (I might be up to 10 or 15 by now), so spending time with a German family in their home has been sort of like being a toddler again. I can’t understand anything anyone is actually saying, so I have to glean all the meaning in every conversation around me by paying close attention to tone and context. It’s interesting because occasions that bring far-flung families close together—even happy occasions like a birthday celebrations—are fraught with complex dynamics and little tensions that are hard to read, even if you speak the language.

So, today is the day of the party where the 150 close friends and family are gathering at local restaurant. Tomorrow is yet another, smaller party at the house, and Monday Ingo and Marsha head back to Los Angeles and we are taking a quick trip up the Rhine to see some more tidy villages and hopefully some castles. Germany is supposed to be riddled with castles, but I haven’t seen one yet.

Oh, and it rains a lot in Germany, which I didn’t know. I don’t mind the rain, though, intermittent rain makes good light for photographs. And you can buy goofy umbrellas with ears on them.

And today the sun is shining.