New Year’s Panic

It’s 11.30 on New Year’s Eve, and I am sitting at the computer in a panic, while other people party on telly behind me (currently, it’s Lulu yelling huskily and shaking her backside — saints preserve me!). M has gone down to the pub with promises to be home before midnight, and the girls are fast asleep. It feels like any other night of the year — I actually forgot completely that it was New Year’s Eve, until a friend emailed to ask if I had special plans and I wondered what she was on about… I don’t mind at all M going out without me — in fact, I encourage it, I think it’s good for him — but I do mind that being a mama-with-no-babysitter has turned me into such a homebody that I actually forgot what tonight is. I used to go to the pub too — all tarted up, little skirt, heels, face done, nice glass of smooth warming whisky, neat. Not so long ago, but such a long way away.

I am panicking because I can’t seem to find any insurance company who will give us short-term health cover while we wait for M’s company policy to kick in. Every company I speak to has a “residency requirement” before they will cover us — we have to have lived in the US for 6-24 months, depending on the company. I rang one broker and, upon finding that that not one policy from any of their companies could cover us, the bloke ended our conversation by saying, “Ring us back when you’ve been here for six months!” as if this delay was nothing at all.  Then he added, “And have a nice day!”

I am kicking myself because I thought I had this sorted — I spoke to an insurance broker in November who found a good policy which looked just right for us, and she assured me that there was no rush because they could cover us within 24 hours of our applying — and so I have left it until now to finalise. I rang her today and, as we went through the application details… lo! She discovered we have to have lived in the US for two years in order to be eligible. Poof! There goes the insurance I thought I’d sorted out. So, I’ve been ringing companies all evening and trying to get a hold of brokers. The brokers are shut and the companies all say they can’t help because we’re not living there, and the panic has been rising from the pit of my stomach.

The way these companies react when I explain that we are moving from abroad, you’d think we were trying to do something really suspect and weird. It’s so disheartening. Surely they have heard that there are people living in other countries? They have heard of the rest of the world, haven’t they? Well, we are just four of those people, and we are moving to the US, and we’d like to buy some short-term health cover. We only need 41 days’ cover before the company policy kicks in, and here’s our money… No? No?

I am uncomfortable with the option of gambling with no insurance for me and DH, but I am absolutely unwilling to gamble with my daughters’ health (particularly when you consider that we’ll be learning to drive on the the other side of the road in the freezing conditions of February). Y’know, even the state CHIP program requires the children to have been resident and uninsured for 6 months. That actually makes me feel sick. But I’ve rung so many people tonight and looked at so many websites and all I’m hitting is brick walls.

M will be home very soon, so I will stop thinking about this and try to stop panicking.  We will drink warm ale and ring in the new year, here in the house, with the telly and my comfortable shoes. Here’s to 2008. Here’s to solutions. And then, when this is sorted, here’s to new adventures, new possibilities, and lots and lots of calm courage.

I wish you all the best for the New Year.

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Feeling the Failure… No, Looking to the Future

I sat on the couch today with tears in my eyes. I have been reading Homeward Bound : A Spouse’s Guide to Repatriation by Robin Pascoe and, while it’s a good read and quite helpful, sometimes I hate it because it deals with issues I don’t want to think about and then the reality of it all washes over me and I start to cry.

So, there I was, feeding the baby, the book slumped against my leg, and hot tears brimming in my eyes when M walked in. He asked me what it was — as if he had to ask. I told him I didn’t want to go, and he nodded and said, “So what shall we do?”

“What can we do?” I replied, with resignation. “It’s just… it’s just that I don’t want to go home like this. I don’t want to go home in failure. I never wanted to go home unless it was on my own terms.”

When I split with my ex-husband — a lifetime ago — it seemed likely that I would have to go home then, but I fought tooth and nail to make it possible to stay. I sold every unnecessary item and emptied every possible piggy bank in order to fund myself until I could get back on my feet. At one point I think I was probably £10 away from being penniless, but I did it – I managed to stay, and I got back on my feet. I wasn’t going to go home in failure.

And now, here I am in the same situation: going home because I have to, not because I want to. There aren’t enough piggy banks to save me this time. I make myself feel better about it by telling myself that I am choosing to do it for the sake of our daughters, so they don’t have to go into daycare 40 hours a week in order for me to make enough money for us to stand still. It does help to think of it that way — I get some comfort from the knowledge that this move serves a noble purpose — but I still feel, down deep in my gut, that I am coming home in failure. This noble purpose could have been served in the UK if only I’d done better. If only I’d succeeded. Hence, the tears.

M knelt down next to me. And then my very grumpy, very English, very glass-half-empty husband said, “It’s not failure. Staying here and sinking would be failure. We’re not going to do that and we’re not going to fail. We’re just taking the next step on our journey.”

I was so shocked, you could have knocked me over just by blowing on me. My mind sat there stunned, but my heart heard his words and rose back up out of the pit of my stomach.

He never says things like that. God blessed me today.

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Things I am Looking Forward to about the States, Part 3

We’ve spent most of the past few days packing — an emotionally draining way to spend the holidays. Actually, we’ve mostly been throwing out. I joked to M that by the time we’ve thrown out all the collected junk that fills every available space around here, we’ll discover that this house is big enough for us after all and we can stay!

It’s been a bittersweet job — I have come across photos and letters that span my years here in England, and it has overwhelmed me with nostalgia. I don’t want to look at them — just want them to stay tucked up in their cupboards, preserved and safe — but I have to look through them in order to separate the wheat from the chaff. And so I must endure this walk though the memories of my years here, sweet and painful.

I find it overpowering. I am exhausted after only a short while, and there is so much left to do, so much to pack, so much to throw away. I want to stop. I want to make myself a nice hot cup of tea, sit down on the couch, and pretend this move never has to happen. But I can’t do that — must plough on. And, I find, the only way to do that is to think positive and keep my eyes focused on the things to look forward to in the States…

Electricity outlets in bathrooms They’re illegal here because the electrical current is so much stronger. And, while I understand the safety principles involved are quite sensible, it does drive me nuts not to be able to dry my hair in the bathroom. More than that, it is a big problem in this house because there is no heat in the bathroom at all, and stripping off to crouch in a cold cast-iron bathtub for a semi-shower in a freezing cold bathroom — literally freezing cold — with badly fitting 100-year-old sash windows at 6am in January is a truly miserable experience. If this weren’t a public blog on the world-wide web, I might suggest that I’ve run an extension cord into the bathroom in order to power an electric fire but, as that would clearly be illegal, I won’t even entertain such an idea!

Doors Hung the Right Way Doors in the UK tend to open into the room, instead of toward the wall. I have no earthly idea why and it is annoying in the extreme. It effectively reduces the usable space in any given room by at least six square feet, because you have to allow enough space to walk around the door in order to enter the room. And given that the rooms in the UK are generally pretty small to begin with, this is no small inconvenience. Such a minor detail… yet, such a big deal.

Window Screens They don’t have them because they generally don’t need them. There are very few biting bugs in England. You can sit with the doors and windows wide open all summer and not get a single mosquito bite. But you do get flies. And depending where your neighbour has positioned his rubbish bins or how smelly the cat’s food is, you may get a lot of flies. So while I do love having the breeze flow freely from one wide open window to another, sometimes it would be nice to have the option — just simply the option — of window screens.

Mixer Taps In most British bathrooms, the hot water comes scalding out of a tap on the left side of the sink and the cold water comes freezing from a different tap on the right. If you want warm water, you have to either fill the sink up with a bit of both, or cup your hands under the cold and then transfer it over to the hot to get a mix of the two. Amazing as it may seem, mixer taps — although hardly cutting edge technology — are as rare as hens’ teeth over here. And here’s what’s more amazing: most Brits seem to prefer it this way! Well, here’s where my much-sung Britishness comes to a screeching halt — I like mixer taps. I look forward to the simple joys of warm water.

Raccoons, Opossums, Chipmunks, Fireflies, the Sound of Crickets, and the Distant Smell of Skunk None of these is particularly important — and I could certainly understand if you raised your eyebrows a bit in disbelief when you read the last one — but they take on an importance when they aren’t there anymore. I can’t say I’ve ever noticed chipmunks much, or possums, or raccoons… but they don’t exist here, and I kind of miss them. And beautiful summer evenings are just a little incomplete without a gentle chrrr-chrrr of a chorus of crickets and a twinkling display of fireflies. As for the smell of skunk… I don’t really know how to explain this, but I’ve missed it — that slightly repulsive yet strangely attractive scent drifting on the wind from the far distance while I’m out on a summer’s drive. M has no concept of that smell at all, and that is amazing to me.

Mailboxes I am looking forward to having my mail deposited into a metal box at the end of the driveway. I am looking forward to having to put on shoes, get my keys, and trudge out in the rain, snow, cold, and/or scorching heat to collect it. Here in the UK, the postman puts your post through a flap cut into your front door — the letterbox — and it falls neatly onto the doormat in your front hall. It’s a lovely little luxury to have your post delivered right into your house without ever having to set foot outside but… I have always found it unsettling to have a hole right there in my front door. Anyone can — and sometimes they do — bend down, push it open, and peer in. I have walked past my front door in my dressing gown to see a hand protruding from the gap and a pair of eyes suddenly locking onto mine — it was my neighbour telling me that the doorbell didn’t appear to be working, but it stopped my heart nonetheless. And once, when I was living in Norfolk, some of the rougher inhabitants enacted their midnight revenge on someone by pouring petrol through the letterbox and then following it with a lit match. The day-to-day practicalities of the letterbox are lovely, but I’d just prefer for my house not to have a hole in it that anyone can open and shove through anything they like. I will curse myself for saying this on some cold, rainy morning, but I do like mailboxes.

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Identity

I learned something about myself in the past few days: I finally understand one of the driving forces that has shaped my entire life. After years of not knowing, I realise what brought me to Britain, and why it has been so important to me to be here, and why I am finding it so very painful to leave.

It started when M said with surprise, “My daughters are going to be… American.” It’s quite a strange concept for a father to get his head around: that his own children, born of his own flesh, will grow up with an identity that is foreign to his. This started us on a conversation about what it is that makes a person British or American, or any nationality really. Is it where they were born? Is it the culture they were brought up in? Is it the country stamped on their passport? What will our daughters be? What am I?

I have struggled with my identity, in terms of nationality, all my life. I was born in the United States to two British parents and was raised in a close expat community for the first 6 years (or so) of my life. When I was very young, the idea was that we would live in the US for a few years and then return to the UK, and so our identity was clear: we were all British, and the United Kingdom was home. The fact that I was a dual-national by accident of birth didn’t alter that I was, like my parents, a Brit who would soon return home. Then my father died suddenly, just after my first birthday, which threw all the plans into chaos. My mother stayed in the US during the aftermath of his death — perhaps we would return home later, but a move like that would have been too much when she was so newly bereaved — and she still thought of herself and her daughter as completely British.

But everything changed a few years later when she fell in love with an American — my second dad. They had a whirlwind romance and were married within months (and, I am happy to report, are still madly in love three decades on). Overnight, the plan changed: we weren’t moving back to the UK. We were staying in the US, and my mother was going to become an American citizen. Britain wasn’t the “home” we were returning to anymore — America was home now.

The concept of home is an important one to a child. The need to belong runs deep — it is rooted in the survival mechanisms that are instinctive in small children. I think my mother was probably able to process this change of plan well — it was her choice and it was driven by love — but it was much, much harder for me. I knew I was British — I’d been told so all my life, my grandparents and cousins were British, we went back every summer.  It was simply what was. I was British — except now I… wasn’t.

And what’s more, lots of people were telling me I wasn’t British. I can remember people telling me, in an incredibly patronising way, “Yes, yes, but… you’re American really.” Sometimes (and, sadly not that uncommonly) people had an almost hostile reaction, as if the idea that someone who had two nationalities wouldn’t automatically cherish their American nationality above the other was offensive, or unpatriotic or ungrateful. I remember once being told I was being pretentious, and going home and asking my mother what “pretentious” meant, and wasn’t I really British? But my mother was also one of those people who was now telling me that I was “American really“, though for all the right reasons and entirely out of love — she was hoping to help me adjust to changes in our lives, and did it by trying to rewrite my identity for me.

I think that as soon as Britain ceased to be home, it took on a certain mystique in my mind. The more that people tried to push me into changing my identity, the more I felt I needed to hold onto it. After time, of course, it ceased to be on my mind so much but, looking back now, I can see it never left my subconscious, and that it solidified into a longing in a way that it never did for my other dual-national friends. As time went on, I got more used to the changes that had happened in my life — I grew up as an typical American kid and I was happy in that — but I always held dearly onto my dual-nationality. I knew I wasn’t one or the other, British or American. I wasn’t even half-and-half — I was completely both, a 2-for-1 bargain. And in my heart, I continued to hold a deep-seated need to validate that by returning to Britain.

And that need ended up shaping the course of my whole adult life: as soon as I graduated from university — as soon as my life was under my control — I went. I shed my life in the States — my possessions, my contacts, my career prospects — and moved to the UK. I took a job that was far, far beneath my skill level and which had no prospects, but enabled me to be where I wanted to be. I was finally able to feed that need which had been growling hungrily inside me all my life. I was able, at last, after two decades, to validate the identity that was once mine and which was taken from me very abruptly.

I have often wondered what it was that made me come to Britain — I’ve thought about it a lot, my mother and I discussed it many times, M and I have talked it over… and I simply never had an answer. It’s only been this past week that it has finally come clear to me. And it’s made me understand a little better why I am so troubled about moving back to the US: there is a part of me — a large part, a deep part — which worries that I am going to lose this hard-won identity all over again. That by going back, I will become “American really” again, pretentious to think of myself as British as well. There is a part of me that knows that, although we think of ourselves as a British family with strong American connection, overnight we will become, in the eyes of everyone around us, an American family with one British member. Having gone to such lengths to validate the identity I always thought I had, I am loathe to go through a process that will strip it away from me again.

I’ve talked this over with quite a few people. Some of them think I am silly to be so worried, and maybe I am. I am looking at it as I remember from my childhood, but I am not 5 anymore and the experience I will have this time as an adult will be very different from the experiences I had as a child. And I know that what matters is the identity I hold for myself, not what others want to assign to me. It’s about the way my husband and I see ourselves, the atmosphere we create in our home, the dual-national identities we foster in our daughters.

But that’s easier said than done. This move is big and frightening — it is leaving everything that has been familiar about my life for the last 15 years. It makes me feel scared and small… small like a child. I have loved living here — I have been very settled — and a lot of that has been because it has fulfilled a need I have carried all my life.

And now I am going to stop feeding that need, and I just don’t know how that is going to feel.

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Every Night, A Disappointment

Every night, I think, tonight might be the night!  And every night, I am disappointed.

The baby wakes me up every three hours to feed — sometimes it’s two hours, sometimes it’s four, sometimes it’s one.  It’s been nearly a year and she is still calling for me again and again, every night.  I can count the number of times I’ve had more than four hours’ sleep together on two hands.  I can count the number of times I’ve slept more than six hours together on one hand.

I am tired all the time.  I am strung out; I ache; I have trouble concentrating; I don’t handle change or complexity nearly as well as I used to.  I looked at myself in the mirror tonight: I look older — older than I should in a year.  I look tired.

I am tired.

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Things I Think I’ll Miss About Britain

The other side of looking forward to things in the States is realising how much I will miss about Britain. I find myself missing places I haven’t even left yet and pining for things that are still all around me. I feel it’s only right to face head-on this sadder side of my feelings about our move, so I will list them out…

Castles, Historic houses, Neolithic ruins, and Roman ruins — we’re surrounded by them, and even though we’ve had to pull in our belts and let the memberships to EH and NT lapse, and even though I never have the energy to drag both girls and the pushchair out to see castles and Roman villas, I do like seeing them, driving past them… even just knowing they are there. A glimpse of a stone-age fort on the top of a ridge as I am driving to a routine doctor’s appointment — that’s magical!

Walking into town — it’s not the biggest town and it’s not the best, but it’s got what I need and it’s a 5 minute walk. I love being able to just step out of my front door and walk somewhere. (The good news is that the house we are initially moving into in the States is in a very walkable area as well. Walkscore gives it a rating of 51 out of 100!).

Shopping in Bath and Salisbury — they are our nearest proper shopping towns, and what wonderful places they are! It is an utter delight to do your shopping in places of such history, significance, and beauty. It turns a normal Saturday shopping trip into a multidimensional experience. And no matter how many times I go, or how mundane an object I am shopping for, the loveliness of Bath and Salisbury never ceases to amaze me.

The ability to pop over to the Continent easily and quickly any time we like. A weekend in Paris by Eurostar; a quick trip to Italy; a week in Spain for as little as £200 each; popping over to Germany for the Christmas Markets. (Except… to be fair, when was the last time we were able to get away? Our last trip to the Continent was our honeymoon to Rome four years ago, and before that… I think it was Paris seven years ago. It’s a lovely thought, being so close, but it doesn’t make any real difference if you’re always to skint actually able to go.).

Reading local books — a lot of great literature has been set right here where I live. Thomas Hardy set his novels all around this area: scenes in several of his novels took place in the very town I live in, and he raised one of his most famous characters in the village we were married in. Jane Austen described Bath in great detail as the backdrop for Persuasion and Northanger Abbey. And Sarum is all about the landscape surrounding Salisbury. It’s been a real joy to be able to read these novels whilst living in their very settings. My only regret is that I haven’t read them all, and when I do someday get to the ones I’ve missed, I will have to conjure these settings from memory, instead of being able to explore them in person as I do now.

Church Bells — British churches have real bells, rung by real people every Sunday, at every wedding, and usually one evening a week as well, for practice (in our case, Monday nights). There is nothing so magical as the sound of real, ancient, booming church bells. I love to open the windows and just let the sound roll through the house.

The Country Pub — there is nothing in the US like it, and probably not anywhere in the world either. It’s laid back, it’s slow, it’s local, it’s been in business — on that spot with that name — for hundreds and hundreds of years. It welcomes dogs. It’s filled with happy, slightly squishy drunks. Its beer is warm and tasty. Its chairs are weary. Its publican is welcoming, but can hold his own when he needs to. It is home from home.

Green — the country is green. Greener than you realise if you’ve never been. Green in winter, and greener in summer. When you live here, you forget. And then you return, and you suddenly realise. It’s a beautiful, lush, rolling greenness that stretches out in front on you, as far as the eye can see.

English Robins — which are completely unlike American robins, and follow you around the garden, singing their ever-changing song and waiting for you to dig them up some worms.

Dorset Blue Vinney — heaven, especially in a salad or with a sharp pear chutney.

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She Does What She Sees

My daughter’s two favourite activities are 1) breastfeeding and 2) changing nappies. That is, she breastfeeds her bears and she changes her bears’ nappies. She does both with remarkable realism.

For the former, she puts the Boppy cushion on her lap (“Boppy cushion, Bear!”), arranges a blanket under his head (“Blan-kenet, Bear!”) and, pressing Bear to her t-shirt, she then looks off into the middle distance and adopts that slightly bored, pensive look so common to breastfeeding mothers.

For the latter, she goes through every step with incredible care: “Legs up, Bear!… Wipe… Wipe… Nappy in the bin! New nappy… Legs down, Bear!” Sometimes she includes a “Shjuuuuu…” — this is the hair dryer on Bear’s bum which, we’ve discovered, is a wonderful fix for nappy rash. Every step is a mirror image of what I do, executed to perfection.

Of course, she does a whole range of other little-girl activities — dancing, running, cleaning, playing with her blocks, and reading books — but she comes back to these two time and time again. Children imitate most what they observe most. She is holding a mirror up to me — and showing me a surprising, sobering, familiar reflection of my own life.

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What a Strange School System!

I’ve just discovered something startling about the town we are moving to: the school system is administered through employers, so that you register your children for school through your HR department at work. It seems a bit odd to me — how on earth is my daughters’ education connected to my husband’s work in the building trade? — but that’s apparently how they’ve always done it in this town. I rang the Education Administrator at M’s work and it seems quite straightforward: they choose the appropriate school and organise everything for us. The disappointing thing is that the system imposes a 3-month delay before the girls can start school, during which they will have to stay home and have no education at all. And, if my husband changes jobs for some reason, they will have to be pulled out of school and then be re-admitted by the new employer — complete with another 3-month delay — even if the new company is admitting them to the exact same school as before! I’m told we can organise a private tutor for them during this time so they don’t fall behind, but I’m a bit worried about the cost. I’m also a little worried to hear that if either of the girls is found to have learning difficulties, the schools might choose not to take them at all, and also that if M ever decides to go self-employed — or, heaven forbid, loses his job — the girls would still be able go to school, but we would have to pay our own tuition fees which, I understand, can be quite pricey. Apparently, they’ve found that this system encourages a good work ethic and has produced some of the best schools in the area, although I’ve also been told that 15% of the children in the town are not in school at all and those 3-month delays have created a complicated system where even the children who are in school end up with varying degrees of educational competence.

You have, of course, realised this is all a completely untrue. The town we are moving to has normal public schools just like every town in America, and my children will enroll and be entitled to an education just like every other child. But, as you were reading that, did it sound odd to you? Did it seem a strange way of administering education? Did the idea of 3-month delays or children being excluded from education get under your skin at all?

This is how the US health care system looks to rest of the world. It looks that ludicrous. Let me ask you something: do you believe in the American public school system? I mean, do you support the idea, or would you like to see it abolished? If you do support the idea, does that make you a socialist? No wait… think about it. Does it make you a socialist? Because the American public school system is a socialist system. The money is taken out of general taxation and used to provide a free education to every child in America, regardless of his or her circumstances. There are millions of Americans who value and support the public school system, but who would never call themselves socialists — and, indeed, they are not. The United States is a capitalist country, but it allows and tolerates certain socialist systems — quite a lot of them, in fact — in vitally important areas for the sake of the greater good, and it is able to do this without experiencing any real threat to its underlying capitalistic nature. Public education is one such system and almost no one in the United States is calling to see it abolished.

I read somewhere that the United States is the only developed country in the world to rely on a private health care system — the rest of the developed world provides universal care in a variety of ways that range from mixed private-and-public systems to totally government-controlled systems. “Universal” health care doesn’t have to mean one rigid possibility: there are a range of possible models. It could even be done without taking health care out of the hands of private hospitals and insurance companies. The basic structure doesn’t need to change — all that needs to be done is to make sure that a reasonable safety net is available to everyone. And the US has a fantastic advantage: because it has waited so long, it has the opportunity to learn from others’ mistakes and design a system that takes the best of them and avoids the pitfalls. It’s a wonderful position to be in, a wonderful opportunity.

If my little story sounded crazy to you, then I ask you to think about that for a while. If you’ve never thought of the American public school system as a socialist system in our midst, then I ask you to think about that for a while as well. Be a capitalist (I am). Be an American. But consider — consider — the possibility of universal health care.

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Things to Look Forward to in the US, Part 2

This week I have been swinging wildly between excitement and despair about this move. In one moment, I can be full of enthusiasm about the life I am heading toward, and within seconds I can racked with grief — and it truly is grief — for the home I am leaving behind. But I can’t both stay and go, so the only way to deal with it is think positively about this move. And when I need to do that, I run through a mental list of some of the things I am looking forward to:

• A house with HEATING. Right now — this minute — I am so bone-chilled cold and I can’t warm up. I live in a house that has no heating other than the two fires downstairs. I’ve got a million things to do but I don’t want to walk more than a few feet away from the fire. We sleep each night in a completely unheated bedroom. I wear socks and a sweater (that’s right, a sweater) to bed. I CANNOT WAIT to live in a house with heating!
• Shops that stay open after 5pm. How much easier would Christmas shopping be if we had that option? How much easier life in general would be, come to think of it.
• Showers. I haven’t had a shower in over a year, since we were on holiday. Don’t get me wrong — I do bathe. We have a lovely cast-iron bathtub against the middle of one wall with a kind-of plastic showerhead-on-a-hose. M is forever moaning about the fact that he is 40-some years old and he has to wash on his knees with a plastic hose, and I am forever pointing out that there’s no point in moaning. But, deep down, I hate it too. There’s something wonderful about standing under a steaming, strong shower. And, fast — there’s something fast about it too, and that really counts when you’ve got these two little people calling more and more urgently for you to come get them out of bed now!
• More than 4 channels on the telly. We don’t have Sky or cable here (I mean, it’s available, but we don’t have it) and, because we live in the vale (a valley), we can’t pick up Channel 5. I’m not much of a telly-addict so, most of the time, I don’t really notice the lack of choice, but sometimes… sometimes, when there’s sport on 3 channels and horror on the fourth… that’s when I tell myself happy fantasies about the cornucopia of American cable TV.
• A garage. Or even just a driveway. Or even the ability to park on the same side of the street as the house. It’s really difficult to get everything — me, girls, baby equipment, and shopping — into the house when I have to park the car part-way up the road and on the other side of a street where the cars (sporadic though they are) come whizzing round the corner at 40 or 50 (or 60!) miles per hour. It’s even harder when both girls have fallen asleep, and I have to make three or four trips back and forth to carry each snoring lump and all the various bags into the house. How I look forward to pulling a car straight into a garage and just walking directly into a house. The thought of it excites me wildly. Don’t ever let my husband tell you I’m difficult to please!
• Some space. Our only living area is about 12′ x 12′ square — that’s living room, dining room, and den for the four of us. It’s where we spend all our time, all day, falling all over one another. The kitchen is so small that you can’t fit two people in it at the same time without the sure probability of knocking an elbow into something and breaking some glassware. The house we will be renting when we first arrive in the US has 3 bedrooms, a separate living room, dining room, and two family rooms, as well as a full-size eat-in kitchen, and a garage. Oh, the glory of it!
• The ability to do the laundry at night, when I’ve finally remembered it. I’m terrible for doing a load of laundry during the day and then utterly forgetting it until I’ve gotten the girls in bed and do my last-minute before-bed tally. It’s only then that I discover it, limp and soaking wet, in the washing machine. But because we live in a terraced house, I can’t run the dryer after 9pm without disturbing (and seriously pissing off) my neighbours, so my only choice is to hang each piece of wet laundry on any appropriate surface (the fire guard, the bannister, doorknobs) to air out overnight and then gather it all up again to go in the dryer tomorrow. Or, I could leave it, damp and mildewing in the washing machine until the morning, when I can run it through a second cycle and hope I don’t forget it this time. But when we get to the States, we will live in a detached house and I can run the dryer any time I like. I can do laundry at 2am if it pleases me! I can stay up all night and do load after load after load, not stopping until I see the sun break over the horizon! And I know you think I’m taking the mick, but I am really quite overcome with giddiness at the though of that kind of freedom.

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As I was sitting here trying to think of things for this list, I asked M what he was looking forward to about moving to the States. He looked blank for a minute, then his face brightened and he said, “I think guns and porn, mostly.”

Saints preserve me.

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Follow Up Appointment: the Result

We went to hospital today for a combined appointment for the girls: E2′s follow-up appointment and E1′s allergy test. The pediatrician had realised that his secretary had scheduled separate appointments one week apart and, aware that it takes us about an hour to get to the hospital, he very kindly arranged to have them combined. I am relieved to report that it was a much smoother day than our last appointment.

We saw the nurse first, to have both girls’ allergy prick-tests. E1 was being tested for egg; E2 for banana, tomato, avocado, and latex. The nurse pushed E1′s sleeve up and carefully wrote five sets of characters down her arm with a ballpoint pen.  She turned to me, stunned — she knows very well that you’re not allowed to write on your skin with pens! Then the nurse carefully put a dot of liquid next to each pen mark. E1 found this intriguing and looked at me in wonder, then at her arm, then back at me. The nurse said, “And now, we pop the bubbles,” as her assistant tightened her grip on my daughter’s arm. She pulled out five sharply pointed metal pieces, and swiftly jabbed each one through a dot and into the skin. E1′s face suddenly registered shock, and then quickly squeezed tight and her eyes went red with tears. She looked to me and I tried to reassure her that she was ok, but as she turned back to watch the metal pricking her arm, her face was frozen mid-sob and the tears rolled quietly down her cheeks. But I was so proud of her — she didn’t scream, she didn’t pull her arm away. She cried quietly, and bravely kept her arm in place, because she’d been asked to. She’s two-and-a-half. She’s a remarkable girl.

When it was finished, her bravery left her and she sobbed loudly and buried herself in my shoulder. I rocked her for a moment or two, and then settled her in the push-chair so that we could do the same to E2. I was all ready to dole out more loving reassurance but, amazingly, the baby hardly seemed to realise she was being injured. This child, who has spent most of the last year complaining about everything within a 20-foot radius, smiled blissfully at the nurse’s assistant for the entire time she was being stabbed with various allergens.  I was stunned.

Ten minutes later, E1′s arm was bright red and welting impressively. The doctor told me that any welt over 5mm was considered to be a “properly” allergic reaction — hers were 9mm, 10mm, and 14mm. He said we are ensure she doesn’t eat egg of any sort — either on its own, or as an ingredient in sauces and mayonnaise, or cooked into cakes and biscuits — for at least a year, and then we should have her prick-tested again. He also kindly suggested that he would have the hospital dietitian ring us to discuss her diet.

E2′s arm was very calm by comparison. The only welt was in reaction to the avocado, and even that was only 4mm across. She had no reaction at all the banana or the latex, which surprised me greatly, given how much she had struggled after eating banana and how red her hands had been under the latex squares. The pediatrician and I discussed her diet and her reactions to various foods. I explained that she’d begun scratching her face as soon as we’d given her yogurt, and he felt that indicated clear reaction to dairy, even though they hadn’t tested for it. He said we should ensure she has no dairy for the next six months, and then try it again carefully, watching for a reaction. He also said that, for the next year at least, we should ensure she doesn’t eat avocado (as she had reacted to it), and also not give her any nuts or eggs (which will be easy to do now that we have to avoid them for her sister as well).

Toward the end of the appointment, E1 started coughing wildly, so hard as to nearly make herself ill — something she started doing last night — and then her breath became wheezy and laboured. Still anxious from the trauma of her surprise stabbing, she crumpled into immediate sobs and came straight to me for comfort. The doctor listened to her chest with his stethoscope while she looked at me wide-eyed and alarmed in case this new instrument had a similar surprising sting. I held her hand and told her it was ok, but she never took her frightened gaze off my face. When he was done listening, he diagnosed a case of croup. I explained that she’d woken up crying with it several times the night before, struggling to breathe. He gave us a prescription for a mild steroid to reduce the swelling in her throat, so that we have it in case we need it tonight.

And just before we left, he weighed E2 again: 7.886kg (17lb 6oz), a gain of nearly 400g (14oz) in a month, which means she has remained on the 9th percentile.  The doctor is satisfied with that gain, and feels that she has simply found “her place” on the chart. As he said, she’s clearly a well nourished and thriving baby — and I have to agree — so he felt there was nothing really to worry about.

I am so relieved to have E1′s allergy properly diagnosed and to have a course of action. And, although it surprised me, I am very pleased that E2 isn’t allergic to bananas and latex, and very pleased that she has put on some weight. We will stick to careful diets for both of them for now, and then see how things are in time. Most of all, I am just grateful that we walked into that hospital with worries that were so minor, compared to what some parents have to deal with, and we walked out with fewer worries than we went in with.

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