1) We’ve had 6 inches of snow here and another 9 are forecast, for a grand total of 15 (in case your maths are bad) or 40cm (in case your metrics are good). It’s big fun and I love it, although tomorrow was supposed to be Day 2 of the new job and it looks like I won’t be able to make it to the office, nor have I got the login details to use the new sparkly kit I’ve received to do my new job. Nor will Melissa and Jeff likely be able to fly home. At least the weather is cozy, eh?
2) Ah yes. The new job has started. I am still sorting things out, but I think I love it. Watch this space.
3) Something cool has happened. More later. Let’s just say that I am floored.
4) Something not cool has happened. More later. Let’s just say that I wish I’d kept the receipt for me, I’d take me back for a refund because clearly my statutory rights have been affected. Shit should not be breaking down here, I am obviously badly made.
5) I am reliably informed it is De-Lurking week, but since procrastination is my middle name, then how about half a week? So go on then. I won’t hunt you down. If my statistics are correct then there are quite a few people out there who read here, and this is the one time of the year I ask you to tell me about you for a change, meaning that I’ll now be terrified and cowed by those who come here and wonder why you bother with my little corner of mental. You know my life and who I am, now the table turns and my curiosity asks if you’ll tell me about you? Capes off! De-lurk!*
-S.
*Er, please, that is. Not like I’m ordering you to or anything.
And hey, I may be the only chick in the world who actually lost weight over the holidays, courtesy of a flu bug that slammed into this household on Christmas Day and lingered for another week.
Actually, the holidays ended on the 26th, when we returned to the house and found the Christmas tree was basically dead and exploding all over the living room (note to self: non-drop tree next year, eh?) We had a family birthday party with Alastair’s entire family – they whom we had just spent two days with over Christmas – on the 29th, whereby his mum and I had a mini falling out.
“Shannon!” Mum-in-law called over the din of noise. This was at the youngest brother’s home, and he had invited all of his mates and his wide had invited all of her Filipina mates (one of whom has taught me the goodness that is Pancit Palabok) and the ratio of young children to adults was about 4,267,892:1.
“Yes?” I replied, getting a plate of food for Nick and Nora.
“I just wanted to mention that Emily – do you know Emily? – she’s younger than the twins by 3 months.”
I did know Emily, and even if I hadn’t the toddler in question lurched into the room clutching a breadstick in one hand and a shoe in the other.
“I know Emily, yes,” I said, smiling at the little girl. Emily’s mother followed her into the room, ostensibly to retrieve the footwear.
“It’s just that Emily is already sleeping in a big girl bed and is already potty trained!” Mum-in-law said smugly. Emily the Wonderkid toddled back out of the room, presumably to go solve some quadratic equations.
“Good for Emily,” I said, baring my teeth in a smile that was nearly carnivorous.
“I just felt I should mention that,” Mum-in-law said, as though this sudden revelation would have me desperately pulling a port-a-potty out of my handbag and getting the babies to work on it. I’m honestly not having a go at my Mum-in-law (she and I even get on well these past few years), it’s just this is not new territory. What she didn’t know is that my folks mention this daily, this potty training business. I think I’m going to start off every Skype conversation with my folks with:
“Hi Dad, how’s Tokyo/China/Seoul/Bangkok AND I WILL POTTY TRAIN THEM WHEN THEY ARE GODDAMN GOOD AND READY.”
(the last part in caps because yes, I will be shouting that.)
I am absolutely ok with the babies being potty trained when they are ready. They’re not ready. It’s as simple as that. They’re lovely, brilliant babies and Nick knows all his colors and Nora puts together whole sentences, but being with it in terms of bodily functions they are not. Additionally, although they could quite easily scale out of their cots it simply hasn’t occurred to them to do so and life is a million times easier knowing that they will still be in the same spot you put them down in when you go into their rooms in the morning. I’ll be honest – I am happy to keep this cot thing going. If they’re 18 and still in cribs then maybe there’s a problem, for now it’s all good.
Melissa and Jeff arrived and we had a low key New Year’s complete with fondue and a game of Articulate, then bed before midnight. For the first time in my life, I thought: Why be conscious? Let’s just start off 2010 in a good way.
On New Year’s we had all the extended family round. Alastair’s sister-in-laws and I cried bonded over Doctor Who and mourned the great goodness that was David Tennant as the best doctor ever (Matt Smith, you’re too young. And go comb your hair.) Copious amounts of food and drink were had. It was actually a blinding time.
The babies have been off nursery since the 24th. It was with no small amount of joy and delight that we returned them to nursery today. Not only do we all need a routine, but their tantrums are reaching crescendo levels. Apart from each other both babies are good as gold. Get them in the same room and suddenly they become cage fighters. This has me already terrified – in February all 6 of us are getting on a plane for 24 hours. How the hell we’re going to survive this I don’t know. I’m putting together activity backpacks for each baby, which they will be able to unwrap and open on the flights. I am fully prepared to drug them at some point. Beyond that…well, suggestions are welcome.
Today is a quiet day. Melissa and Jeff are here until Thursday. My new job starts tomorrow, so today I’m taking the older kids to the movies. It feels weird being “unemployed” today. It makes me nervous financially (even more nervous as the Christmas bills are about to hit and damn. Let’s leave it at “damn”. Austerity is the new black.) But the new job will indeed start tomorrow. I will get a new routine, which I confess I really want and need.
This job, it’s not going to be easy. I get that. A few guys I worked with years ago are at the company and I’ve contacted them. We’ve had an honest chat. It’s a real challenge ahead, that much is for sure. Additionally, the level of responsibility is going to go through the roof. I’m terrified. I’m excited.
Let’s see what I’m made of, eh? It’s like I say with the babies, it’ll happen when they’re ready.
And now I’m ready.*
-S.
PS-do we have anyone in or around Fort Wayne, IN here? I know of someone who can use some help. Hit me up with an email if you’re in the area and would like to see if you can help someone out.
*why yes, I did just turn a potty training metaphor into a business one. Move over, Piers Morgan. There’s a new girl in town.
And yes, this is my decade in review. If you’ve opened a window or read a paper or seen any number of BBC specials running this week about The Noughties, then you know the events of the world.
Let’s see – 2000 started off interestingly enough. I had moved from Raleigh-Durham, NC to Stockholm four weeks prior to the new millenium kicking off. I stood on the banks of the water in Sodermalm and got hideously drunk with the rest of Stockholm while listening to Europe perform The Final Countdown live via a barge on the water. It helped that I was drunk. I was working for Company X as a technical writer and instructor, but a nice man took a chance on me (really he was just building up his people portfolio) and offered me a brilliant opportunity, which has more or less directed my career since.
Later that year my fiancé and I acquired Maggie and Mumin. We also got hitched in a teeny, tiny, ancient church in Stockholm and honeymooned on the Italian Riviera.
Highlights from the honeymoon including walking the Cingue Terre the wrong way and having to clean my new husband’s vomit out of the sink when he got food poisoning. It was maybe a sign.
I don’t really think I need to add anything more to that.
2001 launched and I was working away. We travelled a lot both privately and for business. Work was stupid at that time – you could find yourself on a 12 hour flight in order to do a one hour presentation. Kick-offs for projects were held in far-flung places that people not only wanted to go to, but which the company paid for you to go. Looking back, it was a time of severe excess, a time that shouldn’t be repeated.
I held my first ever dinner party – it was an unmitigated disaster, as judged by the fact that I was so nervous I drank a little too much and actually went to bed while we still had the guests over. I also had my first IVF treatment that year. It worked, and I conceived Egg and Bacon. I remember finding out I was pregnant while at Christmas. I spent Christmas with my in-laws, cooking a julbord.
By the New Year, I miscarried.
2002 was an interesting time. We fought. A lot. We moved house, from a staggering apartment
to a lovely house.
I spent a lot of time running in the fields behind the house to Evanescence on the mp3 player. I had my first frozen IVF treatment, which didn’t work and I hadn’t expected it too, either. We fought more. We travelled some, to Greece where I arched my eyebrows and ate spinach pastries
and we had the first and only Christmas I’ve ever spent as just a couple (and why yes, that is Maggie).
This as mysteriously my unreliable sister and her unreliable husband hopped off a flight from NY-Stockholm with the presents I had them bringing over and didn’t get back on an airplane to come stay.
2003 was the wake up call. On January 27, I went home from work, lost the plot, and tried to kill myself. I spent the night in an institution and was then released to start my recovery. I was off work for 8 weeks and spent most of that time suffering from insane insomnia, even during the staggeringly beautiful holiday to The Seychelles. We fought relentlessly, even on the holiday we took to Turkey. We didn’t travel very much that year as the economy was struggling. Lay-offs had been going on in our industry for the past year, and the axe was starting to swing closer to home.
In November of 2003, I learned that the six rounds of cuts I had survived at work could no longer save me. I lost my job. We had already booked a trip to the US for Christmas, so we went. We stayed one night in NYC
and then flew to Dallas, where I cut all my hair off.
That trip was the end of my relationship with both my family and my ex-husband.
2004 dawned and I applied for any and every job. In Sweden one telecom position came open. Such was the state of the lay-offs, it transpired that I along with 11,000 others applied for it. I knew if I were to ever work again I had to leave Sweden. My ex had other ideas – he’d accepted a job working in China, and wanted me to go with him as a housewife and partner, to live on the “compound” the company had (”compound” being their words, “guarded protected enclave that the expats did not leave” was more accurate). That was simply not an option for me.
For the second time in my career, another manager took a chance on me. He hired me, and once my visa came through I moved to the UK in the beginning of 2004.
I turned 30 in a Moroccan restaurant in Prague.
Together, Alastair and I travelled everywhere – Stockholm (to fetch Maggie and Mumin), Amsterdam, Palma de Mallorca, Bahamas, Miami, Dublin, Venice, Scotland, Czech Republic…we were always on the go. We were also on the stay, as here I am phoning up and acquiring our first house to live together in.
Work saw me at Ascot (ironically as a guest of the company that had just laid me off) where I crossed paths with Prince Charles.
2005 was where work really started to knuckle down. I won an award that took us to Monaco.
I worked my ass off in 2005. I relaxed when I could, including a trip to Egypt where Alastair joined me as a diver and got certified for diving. Diving in the Red Sea is to be recommended.
2006 was relentless. Workwise it was the kind of year that goes down on the CV as a blinder. I went to poncy black tie award dinners and won award
after award
and the benefits included things like a large chunk of our household furniture, a trip to Glenmorangie Distillery in the Highlands, £5000, and a little ride on the Orient Express.
We found time to buy our house. This is what it looked like when we first bought it.
This is what it looks like today:
I also got a new man in my life.
Our first IVF cycle as a couple failed, and we went to Santorini and Crete to recover. It remains one of the best holidays I’ve ever had. I went with this guy:
No wait, that was the restaurateur. I really went with this guy:
When we came back we had another round of IVF, which succeeded and then also ended in miscarriage. To recover, I went inwards. I also called my Dad and asked if we could be in each other’s lives. He said yes, and brought along two people who have become a part of my heart.
I lost a child but gained a family.
Christmas 2006 Alastair and I flew to Whistler for some skiing. I also got a sparkly.
While there I started my fifth and most likely final round of IVF, which would also be a donor cycle where I would give half of my eggs to another woman (all the IVF history can be found here). It became the worst cycle ever. My protocol and the other woman’s simply didn’t match up, and the clinic was so concerned about over-stimulating my ovaries that they under-stimulated instead. At retrieval I had 8 eggs, 4 to each of us. Of my four, only two were viable. Both fertilized and became average (or as we called it “meh”) quality. I didn’t think it would work.
On February 21, 2007, I found out it did.
Three weeks later, I saw two heartbeats.
The rest you know.
On 2 October 2007 after the worst pregnancy imaginable, I was admitted to hospital. I was part of the 365 project and so took an awful lot of self-portraits of myself over time, but that night in the privacy of my hospital room, I took what was to become my favorite picture of myself, ever.
On the 3rd of October, my two little people arrived.
In 2008 I went back to work, to a career that had been faltering. I was sidelined. My work was uninteresting and, as a result, I started to do a bad job. I struggled through as we were otherwise busy building an extension to a 100 year old house that needed to house two adults and four children.
It was a tough year but my god I learned a lot about myself.
2009 has not been easy. The highs included not one but two new jobs, the lows…let’s just say they’ve been low and that there was a point where I wondered if I should be hospitalized. This past year has seen sadness of a level that should be illegal. It’s also seen great happiness and healing. I’ve gained friends that I will hold in my heart forever, and one of my longtime friends is now branded on my arm.
I handed back all of my things yesterday to my old company and thus weirdly am without a mobile phone now for a week, which feels mighty strange indeed (it might even be the first time I’ve been mobile phone-less since 1991). I start my new job on the 5th of January. Melissa and Jeff arrive tomorrow, and a big Crumplebottom party is set for the 1st. I’ll start to wind this up now as this has been a seriously long-winded fucker, but in terms of years while 2009 has been the worst year in many ways (although the ending of it thus far has been brilliant and I’m hopeful the next few days continue that upward trend), this past decade has been the best. Right now it feels like the norm – my daughter is jerking around in what may appear to be an electric shock to the untrained eye but is, in fact, her toddler version of dancing while my son rides his ride-on pony out of the lounge waving and shouting “Bye bye! Thanks for coming!”
In between the paragraphs and writing has been many things – the start-up of this blog, which undoubtedly the early readers have long since vanished. I became a veggie. I became a stepmother. I have been in therapy for a very long time and progress has been slow, but it’s been happening. I slept in a Viking bed carved out of ice in the Arctic Circle after watching the Northern Lights, and I have swum in the Indian Ocean with fish colored colors that don’t even have names (and in case you’re worried I’m heading into that “I’ve been to paradise but I’ve never been to me” rubbish, don’t worry, I’m swerving off here). I have been to over 40 countries in the past 10 years. I have fucked-up and failed and I have succeeded and I have loved.
I started this blog with the catchphrase “Just an ordinary girl living in extraordinary circumstances.” I stand by that, I am stupidly, geekily, astonishingly ordinary. I come from a background so rough that my psychotherapist has described it as “the single most unstable upbringing he has seen in his 30+ years of practice”. I may be ordinary yet my life has become anything but ordinary as I stumbled from place to place, heart to heart, as I started living life instead of living outside of it. Because that’s just it, isn’t it? At some point we have to stop being an imposter of the living, and start the living part.
I’ll be having a quiet New Year’s Eve with Alastair, Melissa, Jeff, and two little people snoozing upstairs. It’s like a Trivia Pursuit pie – all the little pieces will be here (hope that analogy didn’t make you gag, either.) My family. My home. I am finally home (although yes, I would most happily move to New Zealand tomorrow.)
New Years is exactly the way I want it.
So Happy New Year’s. I wonder if your decade has been as wild as mine…? Enquiring minds want to know.
The babies joined us (in our messy room, as we’ve been working on the en suite so our room is the “hold all” for all things) for stockings.
They scored.
But the real party was yet to go on.
It’s hard to keep them from popping the microphone in their mouth. And let’s just say that their singing is hilarious and cute, but clearly the “I-Can’t-Sing” gene Alastair and I have has been passed on to them. Nick started off the morning ill and by lunchtime, both babies were rocking a fever. Didn’t stop them from rocking other things though.
They lack rhythm, too, but not for lack of trying.
Both babies like the kitchen set we bought them, although they like the noisy shit more.
We then adjourned to Alastair’s youngest brother’s for a full-on Christmas onslaught with the extended family. We’ve returned home now after spending the night, but it was typical English Christmas fun complete with Christmas crackers and poppers, which my son does not approve of, thank you very much.
And alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol. Served from giant-sized wine bottles my brother-in-law thought would be conversation pieces.
Instead they simply got emptied by the entire family (apart from the minors, no need to send the blue car round).
We watched Doctor Who, laughed until late, and drank entirely too much.
As far as Christmas goes, this year it was a blinder. I received a number of fabulous gifts from Santa, including a brilliant cookbook, Torchwood and Doctor Who DVDs, and a toaster.
Shut up. I really wanted a toaster. Our three year-old, £7 toaster was reaching end of life.
There was something else, too….
What was it….?
Oh yes. I know.
Alastair has been working on a secret project in the study, where I was barred from entry.
On Christmas Day, I found out what the secret was.
A massive billboard that lights up and proposes. The new Alastair and the new Shannon and the new family that we always wanted to be and finally are.
In daylight, it looks like this:
Taped to the front was a new engagement ring.
This year for Christmas, Santa brought my family back together again.
My advent calendar is from here, as passed on to me by one of my closest friends. It’s a paper doll school nativity mock up and it’s completely brilliant and I’m going to re-use it year after year because I love advent calendars but am one of those strange characters that doesn’t like chocolate.
Our advent candles (a holdover from our days in Sweden) has been burning.
I have an evening of toy assembly ahead of me.
The babies are getting this from us, and their grandparents bought the babies My First Keyboard and My First Drum Set.
The grandparents may find their visitation limited in the future due to their choice of presents.
And yes. That’s a disco ball. I bought it for my son, He Who Loves Lights.
My Maggie is still alive and – it seems so far – responding to medication.
You can see her various shaved bits here. I love that cat.
The babies’ stockings are hung and have a few bits in them for the babies to open tomorrow (witness my mad Photoshop skillz as I covered over their real names).
The stockings were handmade by our beloved great-grandma. For a reference on just how fucking big these stockings are, see this:
There’s no way I can fill those bad boys. D suggested I put a twin in each other’s stockings. I think the idea has merit.
We’re still snowed in.
and today will be spent listening to Christmas carols, making lasagne (my traditional Christmas Eve meal), and laughing.
Chicken Little and I have rather a lot in common. Like the little aviary twerp, I am prone to panic and irrational thought when it comes to paranoia. I am a type-A personality who has beaten OCD and anal-retentive behaviors. To say that I am fairly high-strung is like saying Tiger Woods doesn’t have his eye on the ball.
The shops close early tomorrow, and some of them stay closed until Saturday. This plays directly into my survivalist fears. I’m the type of person that is basically always wondering when the end of the world is coming. Books like The Stand and TV shows like Survivors (which I am desperately hoping they make another series of) are scenarios I am often pondering. If the end of the world comes, I want to be ready. The bad news is that if the end of the world comes and I survive, I will almost certainly be eaten by the other survivors since in terms of practical skills, I am pretty fucking useless. Alastair can use wind and solar panels to create electricity, rig plumbing, sew, and grow vegetables. Me, all I could do is blog about it. Not so helpful.
So when a storm hits followed by shops closing for a few days, I go into panic mode. I am list central – I have any number of lists going about foodstuffs we will need. The fridge and cupboards are stocked. I buy extra batteries. I buy shit I may need but have no immediate call for – why yes, we do need six cartons of yogurt. You never know when a random yogurt moment may hit.
A few years ago there was an egg shortage at Christmas, and I literally got my hands on the last dozen eggs at Sainsbury’s. Since then I am a muppet when it comes to eggs. Right now I have – and I am not kidding – almost 4 dozen eggs in this house. In total, the recipes I have lined up will need 8 eggs. Yet when I went to the shop I saw that the eggs were a bit low and thought: Fuck, the eggs are running out! Buy buy buy!
Somewhere an exhausted chicken wants me dead.
I was at Waitrose today buying up the last of the needed goods. It was chaos in there, and I was trying to remain calm. Yesterday Alastair went to Sainsbury’s, where he said that they had marshals to help people park and that the pace within the store was no greater than a humble shuffle. I think I would’ve had a nervous breakdown. Waitrose was bad enough, and when I was headed to the checkout I realized I hadn’t bought any bread.
Bread! We need bread! The shops will close! Shannon 1 screamed.
Easy, Alastair bought a fresh loaf yesterday, Shannon 2 admonished.
But we’ve used four slices from that loaf already! We’re down four! We’re down FOUR! panicked Shannon 1.
That’s true. Maybe more bread? Shannon 2 agreed, prying Shannon 1 down from the ceiling.
I can’t get back to the bread aisle without swinging my handbag like numchucks to get through the crowd! hyperventilated Shannon 1.
Ok, let’s just calm down. After all, you bake. Just bake more bread. Shannon 2 said soothingly.
Yes. Yes, you’re right. Shannon 1 said, breathing through her nose. I’ll just buy 67 bags of flour and 422 sachets of yeast, just in case.
See, Christmas doesn’t stress me out. Buying presents? Decorating? Christmas spirit? Dead easy.
It’s the food shopping.
Alastair always goes to Waitrose 30 minutes before they close on Christmas Eve to get bargains. Last year he came back with two Platinum free range hand-fed by dancing pixies, raised-in-cashmere-lined-houses-and-given-back-rubs-every-six-hours turkeys. They were priced at £80 each but since it was closing time on Christmas Eve, the manager sold them for £5. We still have those fucking things in our freezer. He likes to saunter into the shop before it closes and scoop up a bargain.
Just thinking of it gives me the shakes.
When we did big food shopping last week in preparation for Christmas, we consulted the list as we made our way to the checkouts. Alastair asked if I could think of anything else I wanted.
*Warning! This is very much a “meh” post! Consider yourself waved off!*
Yesterday I had my last session of the year with my Couch Man. Halfway through the session we looked out the window to see massive, thick, “eat-your-face-off” sized snowflakes (because clearly snowflakes have gone mutant here) falling.
“Dude, it’s snowing,” I say, stating the bloody obvious.
“This is your doing,” he groaned. “You and your damn Christmas spirit!”
By the time the session had finished thick snow was accumulating. I had plans to see Twelfth Night (I’m such a fucking dork) that night, but by the time I got to Charing Cross station, I knew my evening was coming to an early end. They had closed the station and were chucking people out. No trains were running. I phoned home to find out that it was snowing like mad and that ice was predicted.
The Bard and I, we would not be hanging.
I made my way to Waterloo, to try to catch a train home. I had parked at a station with our blue car, which currently is under the weather, but needs must and mental health and all that. As I watched the board, I realized that all the trains to where I needed to go – Basingstoke – were delayed or cancelled. I finally got on a hideously packed train to Basingstoke, hoping to get home.
It was only later I found out why getting back to Basingstoke – and my stop is just a few stops before Basingstoke – was so bad. In the whole of the UK the hardest hit area of the country last night – and it was real chaos here – was Basingstoke. You know. Near where I live.
When I finally got to my station I was shocked at how much snow had fallen. In the space of a few hours there was about 6 inches of snow on the train platform. I made my way to the car, battled the snow off of it, and started to drive home. There was a multi-car accident at the exit of the station, so I had to go the long way around, through narrow country lanes. Narrow country lanes that had trees down, thick layers of ice, and no lighting.
On more than one occasion there I was, talking to myself with my knuckles white as snow and my jaw clenched, literally screaming to myself “Steer INTO the slide! Pump the brakes gently! Clutch, clutch goddammit! Steer INTO the slide!” I slid off the road a few times but managed to get through ok. Traffic was ferocious, and people were simply abandoning their cars. I finally got home, and my 5 mile journey took me over an hour and easily cost me years of my life.
This morning I had to take Maggie to the vet. She’s getting worse, not better, and the roads needed to be braved again. Remarkably the roads were much better this morning, so I got to the vet’s with no problem. Only when I arrived, it was simply me and one of the vets.
“None of my staff can make it!” she exclaimed miserably. “I can’t work the computers or the cash register and I have no one to answer the phones.” Said phones were ringing off the hook. Maggie was going ballistic in my arms. The vet got her vet hat on saw to her. My Maggie is at the vet’s all day, with more tests, and it’s now narrowed down to either two things – one of them can be treated. The other can’t. So we wait.
After dropping off Maggie I went to the Post Office to do battle. I had a very large parcel to post, and I had read the Royal Mail’s parcel rules online before going to the office. I squared my shoulders. I was ready.
“We can only post that if it will fit through the postal window,” said the civil servant curtly.
Said package would fit through the window only is Salvador Dali was in charge of the universe.
“Is there anything you can do?” I asked desperately. I had more roads to face and my cat was checked into the hospital. It is two days till Christmas and I wanted a long hot bath and a whole lot of tequila, not necessarily in that order.
They debated behind the counter. While they debated, I saw a list of names one of them had written on a piece of paper.
Sneezy
Doc
Bashful
Happy
Grumpy
Sleepy
?
I looked at it. It twigged.
“Dopey,” I said, looking at the women behind the counter.
“Dopey,” I replied again. “From your list. You’re missing the dwarf Dopey.”
The two women walked up to the counter and looked at the list. They looked at each other. They looked at me.
“We’ve been trying all morning to think of that name!” one of them exclaimed. She wrote “Dopey” on the list. “Thank you so much! Just for that, we’ll take your parcel!”
I never knew knowing all seven dwarves would save my bacon, but thank heaven for small wonders.
1) I protested this year. Truly. I love Christmas with every inch of my skin, but this year I did not send out Christmas cards. I struggle with them, honestly. The majority of Christmas card lists are with people that you only ever speak to once a year, and that is via a Christmas card where you write their names and sign your family’s name. You put it in an envelope where most of the time you only have a few digits of their post code so you cross your fingers and hope that the postal gods are with you on this one. They in return send you a Christmas card and have invariably spelled at least 3 of 6 of your family member’s names wrong. If you sent them one you can often tell whose list you weren’t on, as their card doesn’t arrive until two days after Christmas. All of the cards go directly into the recycling bin after Christmas, because you used to keep all the cards but realized that in 20 years’ time, who the fuck is going to care about the Harrison Family and the yearly card they sent you? I’m over Christmas cards. This year for all the friends we have in the UK, we’re instead arranging get-togethers in January.
So if you didn’t get a card from me this year, it doesn’t mean I don’t love you. It means I do!
2) Brittany Murphy has passed away, and that feels strange and wrong. She was so young and also of the beautiful brigade. Rumors are already swirling, some of them quoting the fact that she’d had sudden and severe weight loss.
I looked at my own figure in the mirror this morning – after losing 22 pounds in about three months, I have put back on two of those pounds (but at least that was enough to push me back above “underweight”). I decided to have a bagel for breakfast, and I added extra cheese to it.
3) Two new babies have arrived in our house:
My new pay phone, which will be hung on the wall later this week.
And we got our hands on a 1950’s retired theatre spotlight.
Alastair’s going to renovate the spotlight and it’s going up as lighting in our living room. We’re strange people. We’re ok with that.
4) Jerusalem artichokes appeared for about 20 seconds at our local Waitrose. I love the hell out of Jerusalem artichokes so I bought several packages of them. I made a killer soup out of some of them, which I then spent the evening rolling around in pain about. Jerusalem artichokes are known for causing gastric pain and flatulence if you eat too many of them (the Olestra of the natural world I guess.) Gastric pain and flatulence? Check and check.
5) Audrey Tautou – who you may remember from Amelie or, worse, The Da Vinci Code film – is in a new ad for Chanel.
She was cute in Amelie.
Now, she’s a stunner. Every time I see this ad campaign I am staggered by how amazingly beautiful this woman is. Did you ever see a beautiful woman and think: You’re so lovely, I want to beeeeeeeeeee you!, something bordering on hero worship? Yeah that’d be me.
They have returned to me, along with a note and a doll added for luck from Moira. The lucky socks story is thus: I bought two pairs of these socks, both identical. One pair I sent to Statia, who conceived the Mini while wearing said socks. The other pair I wore on my 5th round of IVF, where I conceived Nick and Nora. The socks then went on to Moira, who conceived with three heartbeats and had the miracle baby Rory earlier this year (and he’s an absolute doll). She sent the socks back to me with her addition and a letter for the next recipient. As Mel stated here: I know we hear of stories of people who have had IVF any number of times, someone who just needs a break. The IF community can nominate someone, we vote (ergo that person knows that people are behind them) and I send on the socks.
So I’m not selling the socks. I’m giving them away. And if you are someone either undergoing IVF treatment or know of a blogger who is, you can nominate them in the comments. I’m collecting names and we as a community can vote on the next recipient of the socks. I should add the disclaimer that although these socks seem armed with serious juju, I can’t guarantee they’ll work (you know, just in case someone feels like suing me). But if they do work, then I ask only this: once the little bundle(s) of joy arrive, then you wrap up the socks and send them back to me to go on to the next woman.
If you leave a name and URL in the comments (or if you feel awkward about that, just click the “Contact” tab on the top left of the blog and it will open an email to me) , I’ll start compiling names.
Things feel happier and brighter. A number of things just seem to be going well. Maybe it’s karma, maybe it’s that time of year, who knows. I give you the following:
1) Our neighbor’s house continues to undergo its renovation. They were due to have moved in to the house by mid-December. As of last week, their house looked like this:
If you’re thinking their house looks a lot like ours, you’re not wrong. They used our architect and our blueprint (and are even buying the same radiators we have). The new neighbors are really nice but rent a house while their home is being renovated, so they don’t exactly see what goes on while they’re away. I sent them a kindly worded email about how the neighborhood can’t wait until they move in, but we’re a little over the builders “borrowing” our ladders, their dogs shitting in our gardens, and mostly I’m not delighted with a) the fact that the builders keep using our water supply, which we pay for and b) they broke our tap doing so. Our neighbor apologized profusely and just came by with a huge box of chocolates and a bottle of champagne. You’d be surprised what I can forgive with a bottle of bubbly.
2) I’ve bid on and lost the same authentic US 1980’s style pay phone, which a telephone enthusiast had over here and re-built himself. It came up for auction Wednesday night due to the two previous winners being assmunches. I won it last minute. Tomorrow the babies and I are off to south London to pick up the new addition to this modern household.
3) While on ebay, I stumbled across something very cool (photos to come after Christmas). I took a chance and sent the guy an email (when I say “took a chance” I mean “had two glasses of wine on an empty stomach and was feeling fairly ballsy”) making him a low offer on it. He accepted. A piece of the past is coming to us shortly for a price so low that it makes me shake my head in amazement.
4) I also had to sell some baby items on ebay recently (I don’t spend my entire life on ebay, honestly, however I can appreciate that thus far this post is reading like I twitch at anything that may include an auction time left on it) as there was no one to pass them on to, they’re too big to post, and the babies can’t use them any more. I had two of the same thing go up, and a mum who lived nearby said she’d been looking for a pair of these two things for ages, would I be interested in a buy-it-now and she can pick them up? I took her up on it. When I phoned her to arrange times to pick them up, I heard two babies screaming bloody murder in the background and the mum was nearly in tears. When she came to pick up the items, she packed them in the car, along with four Grobags I came across that the babies no longer fit and that her twins could use. She thanked me profusely. I like to think it was twin mum karma passing on.
5) Because of your fabulous suggestions, the nursery carers are getting Starbucks gift cards today. While buying them, the nice barrista behind the counter undercharged me for the coffee I was buying myself (why yes it was a gingerbread latte, how did you know?) When I pointed out he had undercharged me, he simply smiled and wished me a Merry Christmas.
6) I lucked out and got tickets to see Cat on a Hot Tin Roof here in London for a stupidly low price on Wednesday. The tickets were in the 7th row from the stage. There, 7 rows away, were Claire Huxtable Phylicia Rashad, Sanaa Latham, and Adrian Lester. Not to mention the star, Darth Vader James Earl Jones. And let me just say this about his performance: Holy. Fucking. Shit. To say I was blown away is an understatement. He was every single bit the definition of the screen and stage legend he is known as.
8) As Suzie wrote me and as my heavily highlighted Radio Times (the Radio Times Christmas Edition is the bible in this house every single Christmas season) has indicated, David Tennant is on TV in the next two weeks no fewer than 12 times. It’s like Christmas. Oh wait…
9) I live with these two:
10) and finally, I think I have Santa to thank for this one.
The train station is packed and filled with the hustle and bustle of people on their way to and fro. Offices on one end, couches with soft spots and children and socked-feet perched on the sides of coffee tables. Emails and Power Point slides and a quick sandwich at the shop next door meet a warm meal, a glass of wine, a bit of a minced pie. The air is full of frost and light and if you reach out you can almost touch the cold.
I grab a cup of coffee at Starbucks, vowing to myself that this time I will remember the warm gingerbread taste in the pit of my stomach for just a bit longer. The cup warms my hand through its cardboard sleeve, and as usual I am grateful for the warmth. I am enervated from another night of poor sleep but the palliative of Christmas has soaked into my bones, making me feel young again.
A charity band is playing their shiny shiny instruments by a large Christmas tree, located just under the electronic display boards. Men in suits walk past, looking pissed off and plugging an ear so that their other ears can better receive the input from the mobile phones pinned to their heads. A child gets caught by the light bouncing off the silver trumpet, and the child’s mother grins down at him, urging him forward. Silent Night is playing. I love Silent Night, it’s on my top 5 Christmas carols list.
I look up from my bench and see, standing ten feet away, is Santa Claus. No one seems to notice him, he does not seem to be there for anyone to see. People hurtle past him, around him, at one point a plonker with a tie too long walks right through him. No one notices Santa is there, yet there he is, standing in front of me.
I smile.
He smiles back at me. He takes several steps forward, until he is stood in front of me, at talking distance.
“Hello Santa,” I say, still smiling.
“Hello Shannon,” he replies. His eyes twinkle (do they ever stop?) and he smells mildly like he’s already been hitting the sherry, but it’s him all right.
“How’s it going?” I ask.
“Can’t complain. Would rather like to, but can’t complain.”
“Rough year?” I ask.
“You could say that,” Santa says, navigating himself around to sit down on the bench I’d been sitting on. I move back further into the bench and lean back beside him.
“It has indeed been a rough year,” I murmur in agreement. “A rough old fucking year, Santa.”
He looks at me, and sighs deeply. “So it’s Christmastime, Shannon. I had to stop by.”
“I know you did. I’m appreciative, Big Guy. Very appreciative.”
“Tell me about you, Shannon. Tell me about this year.”
I look up and take a swig of my latte. The band is still playing Silent Night, softly and slowly, and every note rises up and waits beneath the rafters. “It’s been a hard year, Nick. Can I call you Nick?”
“Can I call you Sharon?”
I despise the name Sharon. “Right, Santa it is.” I look down at my hands. “I’d say that 2009 was the hardest year of my life, Santa. I look in the mirror and realize that I have changed so much. If I could do it all again, I think I would because of some of the amazing things that have come out of 2009, truly life-changing shit, man. But overall…? It’s been hard. It’s been a hard year.”
Santa reaches out a gloved hand. He wraps his hand around mine, and I notice with a grin that Santa is a mitten man (as am I). I sigh and look at our hands, his covered hand folded over my bare one. I look at my ring finger, still empty. We’re working on things. We’re working.
“And now fucking BA are going on strike, and wouldn’t you know it but Melissa and Jeff are booked to come here on a flight that falls in the strike period, so it looks like we won’t see them now. And I couldn’t wait because I have readied a stellar Christmas for them, and arranged for a big New Year’s Day get-together for them, and now it looks like they won’t come. And it’s bad because I want to reach back in time to the last time they were here and hug them tightly and tell them that so much is about to change, so much has changed, you know? But I can’t. Not unless this year for Christmas you’re bringing me that damn time machine I keep asking for.” I sigh stupidly. “Seriously, enough about me. I’m over me. I’m over talking about me, Santa, tell me about your year.”
“The Missus is concerned about my cholesterol and thinks I need to lay off the mince pies. As if! And the elves went on strike.”
“Those ungrateful fuckers.”
“Exactly! And it’s not like they aren’t compensated well, they even got a pay rise!”
“How much?”
“Ten percent.”
“Ten percent isn’t bad.”
“Tell me about it. But no. The ELB isn’t happy.”
“ELB?” I query.
“Elf Labor Board,” Santa explains. “Apparently you can’t provide a bonus in marshmallows, that’s not on or some such nonsense.”
“The nerve.”
“Exactly! Wouldn’t you like to have a bonus paid in marshmallows?”
“Dude, do you get the internet up there at all? Because there’s been this thing going on called a recession. I think most of us would be happy to see a bonus at all, be it made of spun sugar or real money.”
“Seriously?” Santa asks. “I could use this recession business with the ELB…” he says, looking into the distance.
“Santa, don’t use my inside info for your own causes. What are you getting the babies for Christmas?” I ask, changing tack.
“It’s a secret,” he says huffily. “I can’t tell you that!”
“Well it can’t be any worse than the drum set their grandparents got them.”
“You’re joking.”
“I really wish I was.”
“Note to elf: add paracetamol to Shannon’s stocking,” Santa jokes.
We pause, and then I jump in with the question I’ve had. “So tell me what you’re really doing here,” I query lightly.
Santa looks at me, shifting his weight slightly and straightening out a booted foot that passers-by just seem to walk through. “I had to come check on you,” he says with an embarrassed grin. “To get the details from the horse’s mouth, you know? I like talking to you, you’re a right pain in the ass.”
“That I am,” I agree. “I’m also not sure I like being called a horse. But I’m ok, Santa.”
“Are you?” he asks, looking at me closely.
“This isn’t the joyful reunion we usually have,” I say carefully. “There are no barristas dancing on the countertop, there is no alcohol flowing, there is no crap ridiculousness that usually seems to surround me at Christmastime here just now. But I’m happy. Honestly, I am happy.”
“Anything you want for Christmas?” he asks kindly.
“Can you make Maggie better?” I ask. More tests are being done and it’s not looking good. Maggie lays quietly in the living room, medicated, unhappy and unwell.
He smiles at me. I should have known better than to ask. “It’s been quite a year for you, young lady. I’ve been watching. A lot of bad has happened but you know, a lot of good, too.”
“Oh I believe that too, Santa. I do, really. I was looking through photos last night and realized that who I am today is completely different. And this, I think, is for the best. It’s right, it feels right. The Shannon you met at Starbucks four years ago is gone, but this new Shannon? I think she’s got potential.”
He winks at me and I wink back. “Is there anything you want for Christmas that old Saint Nick can deliver on?”
“I love Waitrose. Their edamame beans are to die for.”
“That’s my boy. Now, they have a Christmas ad this year. It’s beautiful and it almost always makes me cry, which is a pretty stupid thing to say about ploy marketing.”
“Why does it make you cry, my dear?” he asks, concerned.
“Well Santa,” I say, standing and looking up at the ceiling of the train station and the trapped notes of the band beneath it. “the catch line is ‘This Christmas, there’s only one place to be.’ It shows a little girl, dressed in pajamas, looking dreamily up into Christmas tree lights. The implication is that this Christmas, there’s only one place to be – home. The only place to be is home. And this year my life came so close to having that lost. This year, my only one place to be was not in this house that I have lost babies in and this house that I discovered I would be having two babies in, this house that I built parts of with my own hands, this house that I love to absolute pieces. This house that I live in with my family and my cats and my idiot dog. This Christmas I was almost not home.”
I turn to look at Santa. “This year, Santa. This year, I’ll be home for Christmas. With two crazy toddlers and family and laughter and Doctor Who, you can’t forget Doctor Who. I’ll be home for Christmas, and that is the best Christmas present in the world.” I smile at him. “Although if you want to put a bow around David Tennant and pop him under my tree then I wouldn’t complain or anything.”
He smiles and lifts himself off the bench. He comes up to me and puts his arms on my shoulders. He leans in and kisses my cheek. “Merry Christmas, Shannon,” he says kindly.
“Merry Christmas, Santa,” I reply with a smile. “Watch the cholesterol, ok. And same time next year?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he replies with a twinkle, and just like that he’s gone and I am left in the middle of the busy train station with an empty cup of coffee, a train to catch, and a Christmas to fall in love with all over again.
1) Around the World in 80 Blogs is on Monday. Grab your camera, tells us about where you live? You can comment on this site on Monday, and as the links go up I’ll edit the post to include your site.
2) The unbelievable irony – I should have kept my fucking mouth shut. Instead, it appears I have jinxed myself.
Maggie is at the vet’s. She comes home with us tonight and spends the weekend with us while we await test results. We will be administering medication to her every 8 hours. The test results should arrive Monday or Tuesday, but the vet has indicated that maybe this is our last weekend together.
I’m going to use it hoping that this isn’t goodbye, but coming to terms with it if it is.
Particularly when you have been through the IVF track. For those who are fortunate to not have had to have IVF, it goes thus: People peering up your hooch. Needles. Hormones. Extreme crying. More people looking up the passage. More needles. Extra needles. Hot flashes. Various tablets put up your backside (or frontside) to melt as needed. More fanny exams. Big needles, complete with happy drugs. Two weeks of agonizing wait (complete with several weeks of agonizing weight, courtesy of the treatments). If you pass that hurdle, three weeks of agonizing wait. Then you get the next 8 months of people peering inside of you and you jumping at every little twitch and nudge.
For the “average couple” having a baby is about a takeaway curry and a drunken snog leading to unprotected sex, which then leads to peering at various pregnancy tests and then agreeing eh, fuckit, now is as good a time as any to have kids. Or so I’m told.
And these two worlds, while operating for the same end result, are often polar opposites.
While in Wales I bought a copy of the Observer (Sunday’s Guardian, known as “the Grauniad” as they used to be fairly poor at the ol’ spell check). The Guardian is known as being a slightly pink, made-for-hippies-and-teachers kind of newspaper (and they have Lucy Mangan, whom I adore). I have been sampling Sunday papers for my periodical of choice, and while I like the Guardian a lot, they haven’t won me over as a Sunday reader. While I am immature and can get behind a newspaper that says “fuck” a lot, I do rather prefer my newspaper to have some news in it.
That, and I came across a column written by Mariella Frostrup.
Here’s my time card, I’m checking out of that paper, thanks.
She wrote a little ditty, which you can find here, about advising an IVF family.
The problem was thus:
The dilemma: My husband and I have been trying for a baby for five years, with one 11-week pregnancy to show for it. We have had tremendous support from my family. My husband’s sister has had three successful pregnancies during this time, and we have welcomed and loved each addition to the family. However, she did not tell my husband of her most recent pregnancy, leaving it to their mother, when she was six months pregnant, and neither of them told us of the arrival of our latest niece (my husband found out a few days later, when he rang his mother). We are dealing with IVF (as my in-laws know), and feel that we are not only surplus to requirements from his family’s point of view but also the ghosts at the banquet, a downer. I realise that they want to focus on their grandchildren, but it is an added strain that they cannot include us in the picture. My in-laws seem to feel that our failure to produce children equates to our failure as human beings. Should we continue to engage with these people, or should we go it alone?
Whereby everything proceeded to go right off the rails, in my opinion.
The thing is, unless you are that person in that place, you can’t know how to deal with it. My sister-in-law was blissfully pregnant and rubbing her large stomach while I was trooping off to the bathroom to replace blood-soaked pads from miscarriage #2 at one point, but since they didn’t even know we were trying it’s fairly impossible to get angry that people weren’t being “respectful”. When I read the reader’s problem, I thought: Actually, had that been me I would have been glad that they kept it from me for a while. It’s going to hurt finding out early or late regardless, but them not telling me immediately means that they know this is going to hit me hard.
I thought Mariella’s advice was fairly rubbish and more than just a little bit “all about Mariella”. The comments online though, those made my blood boil. There it was, fairly early on –
The fact is that the planet is bursting with children and I have hardly any sympathy for couples who go through IVF for years on end and not wanting to adopt. If you really wanted children that much then you could adopt. You and your husband are not a failure, you are just very narcissistic and self centered.
Ah yes. Just adopt. That old chestnut. Because children are hanging out of balcony windows and agencies hurtle babies at open arms with a gleeful sigh. Or, it could be as a rather lone voice of reason in the comments states:
It’s wearisomely predictable that when someone says they’re going through IVF, they get slated for not adopting, as if wanting to have their own kid is somehow abnormal and they’re evil for not wanting to look after someone else’s.
But here’s the thing – the comments were divided in how to handle things. On one side it sounds as though half were people who viewed things as simply a mis-communication and a need to sit down and talk. On the other hand, it sounds like the other half of the bandstand was filled with “just-adopt-what-the-fuck-is-your-problem-you-oversensitive-cow” folk.
And there’s the problem. “Handling” people who are going through treatment. Not only is treatment hard on the family, but it’s hard on the psyche. Throw into the mix the fact that people don’t all react in the same way – while I would have been ok with not being told about the pregnancy out of deference to my own struggles, I can see that others would view that as a type of treason – and how the hell is anyone supposed to know the best way to reach out and talk to people they know and love who are going through treatment? Isn’t the best advice for the woman to sit down with her family, tell them how she’s feeling, see if they can all agree how best to communicate? And when unicorns and leprechauns stop dancing jigs over the rainbow and reality sets in, can we at least understand ourselves what we want and need from people?
Even then you can get it wrong.
As I did earlier this week.
I said in a post this week: I like my sort-of-stepmother-in-law very much, but she’s slightly special. Having never had children herself, she’s not always the easiest person to be around with youngsters.
Oh for fuck’s sake, Shannon.
A lovely email came into my inbox from J (chiding me in the single most graceful admonishment I’ve ever received) about that sentence. And rightly so. What a seriously insensitive thing for me to write. My stepmom doesn’t have kids but so badly wanted them. Her inability to have them, combined with family troubles, means that my comment was even worse. She’s not good with babies, but I didn’t have to multiply it by a factor of ten.
You remember what it was like, don’t you? J said very kindly (really she was kind, I’m not being ironic here, it was a lovely email). And that’s just it – I remember it all the time. All the fucking time I remember the dashed hopes, the tears, the yearning for a family, the bleeding, the pain at seeing absolutely everyone get pregnant (and actually sometimes that one still hurts). I remember it all. So for that, I am truly sorry for my stupid comment earlier this week.
And this is how it is – when you are dealing with someone who is going through IVF, sometimes you get things wrong. Even people who have been through IVF get it wrong. And we’re the ones who should consistently be getting it right.
Mea culpa?
-S.
PS-the ever fabulous Mums Rock has another post of mine up. Enjoy (or hopefully enjoy, anyway. Hope I’m not getting ahead of myself there.)
The lovely Goehde offered up a game last week in which she paired two bloggers together to see if we could expand the ol’ blog world horizons a bit more. I was up for it – A game! With blogs! And people! And expanded horizons, Batman! I could make friends! I never make friends! I’m a loser, baby! – (you know you want to finish that last one, don’t you?) and so signed up. Below is a post from the match that was made for me of said lovely blogger who has a blog of her own. Her blog, sadly, will be posting my post later today, a post which qualifies in the “Suck Ass” category because I was staggeringly unimaginative today, but said hosting blogger is lovely about it and has yet to send a hit man, so hey it can’t be all bad.
(I will be keeping a watchful eye on the Zombie Snowmen, as Teresa aptly named them and they are now called in this house, though, in case said blogger has recruited them.)
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As I sit here pumping at work, checking my email, I realized a couple of things.
I never received my match for the cross pollinating post for today. I only realized this because I received my match’s post in my email.
Ack! Now I have to throw something witty together and pretend it’s not half assed…and pray her readers like me…
(Sigh)
I also realized there are only 16 shopping days left before Christmas.
Holy Shitballs, Batman! I better get my ass in gear. I have a handful of gifts I have picked up here and there but none are wrapped, and the rest of the family I am kinda out of ideas. They gave me a list, but eh….most of them want gift cards and I DESPISE THEM. Especially at Christmas. Where is the fun in that? No wrapped gifts means my tree is looking mighty bare. Do you know how hard it is going to be to wrap with a baby who loves paper? He loves to “read” the newspaper with Daddy – see below – so I am sure he will love pretty paper just as much.
What to get the hubs… UGH. No clue. I think he wants a new “gig bag” as he calls it. AKA a bag or case for his trumpet, music, and mutes. Where in pray tell shall I find one of these? The only music store chain I knew of, closed down all of their stores in the Houston area…
Friday is our annual bake-a-thon. We (typically the husband and I, but this year a friend is joining the fun) bake and decorate Christmas cookies for a good 12 hours. Putting together cookie packages for the neighbors and co-workers. We tend to make about 10 different things. It’s a lot of work, but everyone appreciates the thought and the season is all about giving, right?
Speaking of, I still haven’t done my usual “do-gooder deed” at Christmas time and paid for someone’s meal and/or person behind me in the drive through lane. The checker/waiter is always so confused. Like HUH? You want to pay for them? But you don’t KNOW them? Do you know what ALL they ordered?
When the going gets hard, I rely on top secret Walter Mitty-like dreams to get me through. Sometimes I win a Pulitzer. Sometimes Oprah is on the couch, crying, telling me that my book changed her life. Sometimes I am accepting an Oscar.
Come the holidays, there is only one dream that I have.
A few years ago the lovely Teresa – who reads here and whom I am privileged to call a friend – told me about the song “When Christmas Comes To Town” from Polar Express (you may want to listen to/download the song before you continue). Since then, my dream takes place around that song. I’ve never told her about the remarkable gift she’s given me, to offer up something that, when I close my eyes and think about, it takes me out of the deepest, blackest pits. I’m telling her now, just as I’m telling you of the secret fantasy I have that I think of every December now, and which lights a fire inside of me that chases out any hint of darkness. It’s cheesy. It’s cheesy cheese on cheese. But isn’t that what dreams are for – to be as dramatic or funny or, yes, cheesy all without the fear of being judged? Isn’t life about getting the chance to enjoy a little dairy in the privacy of your heart and mind?
Here is my unabashedly sentimental and secret dream for Christmas, and I am sharing it with you.
I am running late. I’m always running late, but this time I can’t run late. I chuck my briefcase into the trunk of the car, pushing aside John Lewis and Hamley’s bags in the meantime. It’s dark already and I smile to myself as I see the box of Christmas lights that I’ve just bought Nick. Even at the age of 7 he hasn’t outgrown his love of sparkly lights. A secret part of me hopes he never will.
I tuck myself into the seat, turning off Radio 1 and switching on the iPod, instantly filling the car with Christmas carols. I’m excited and breathless – once again we’re hosting Christmas and the house looks like Santa Claus exploded in it. If you can’t land an airplane in our garden and if the living room doesn’t look like Vegas then we haven’t done it right.
“Buddy the Elf, what’s your favorite color?” goes my phone, which is my text message notification. It’s Alastair saying he’s already bagged us seats. I text him back a smiley face and put my high heeled foot down on the pedal, shivering a bit as the car is still cold.
I pull up to the school, hop out, and am greeted by other mums who know me by name.
“Shannon!” Leonie calls. “Heard that the Christmas variety is even better than usual this year!”
I walk over to her, smiling. We get on well, having served at the past two Sports Days as parent helpers. “You know, I have no idea. Nick and Nora haven’t said a word, I have no idea what’s going on.”
Leonie grins. “Amelia has told me. I think it’s going to be great.”
“Well you know more than I do. It’s top secret in our house!” I grin. I like Leonie. Moreover, I like having a friend in Leonie, it’s something I never thought I’d have – an in to the parent crowd. But it’s more than that, it’s that I have a friend who is local who I meet sometimes at the pub when we need to vent…not something I ever saw for myself.
We head inside the auditorium. I’m so thrilled that we got two spots at this, our local school. It’s named after an author that I adore who is from this village and it’s an old and ancient building of several hundred years that the forbidding Headmistress fought for and won to keep, instead of having it knocked down and replaced by something modern with PVC windows. The stage is dressed with fairy lights on the red velvet curtains, and I see a familiar face three rows from the front, amongst the hubbub of parents and siblings and grandparents. I bid Leonie goodbye and head over.
“Hello Handsome,” I say, kissing Alastair quickly. “How was your day?”
“The vendor is such an arrogant ass, but you know how it is. The meeting otherwise went off without a hitch. How was yours?”
“Not bad, I got the budget approved!”
“Well done you!”
“Thank you,” I beam. I smile at him. “Thanks for bringing the camera, I forgot it this morning.”
He smiles smugly. “Well, I am here to make sure everything is ship shape.”
The lights go down and the Headmistress introduces the evening. We all sit silently and not fidget when she comes on, just in case. Authority figures still hold their sway on us.
The reception class comes on and sings Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, complete with a poor little chappie who has a battery powered red light on his nose. At least two of the little ones break into tears and several others stand there, frozen, but there are a good dozen who sing with gusto, if not any hope of tone. In spite of ourselves I and everyone else in the audience is grinning stupidly, unable to resist their lovely voices.
The Year One students come on and present the nativity, complete with costume. I am a little bewildered by it all though, and luckily I’m not alone.
“Is that a….Brussels sprout?” Alastair whispers to me.
“I think so,” I reply with wonder. “Luckily, the Brussels sprout in question is offering the gift of myrrh so it really is a most helpful vegetable.”
“Well it needs to be,” Alastair replies. “I’m fairly sure that the other Wise Man, who is elegantly played by what I think is a kid dressed like a blender, is not willing to give up his gift. The Baby Jesus is not going to be pleased.”
“That’s not a blender, it’s Ziggy Stardust.”
“Oh right.”
The surreal nativity ends and the Headmistress comes out. “The next act will be two of our students in Year Two,” she says smiling. “They’ve been working hard at this, I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.” She looks at Alastair and I.
“Did she just look at us?” Alastair whispers.
“I was just about to ask you the same thing!”
The curtains part and it’s a big open set. There are no pieces of furniture, no fittings, just a dark blackdrop which shows twinkling lights as stars in the back. There’s no one on the stage. Soft music is played from the speakers located across the theatre. Then a high voice from the side comes – it’s pure and perfect, the sound of a young child, unmarred by time or adolescence.
La, la, la, la, la, la, la…la la la la la….
And I can’t believe it – my cheeky son walks calmly to center stage, his voice high and unbroken, his face more earnest than when he faces his favorite lights. He is dressed in a dark blue robe, his pajama bottoms and slippers peeking out from the bottom. He continues, looking over the audience with a quiet calm.
I’m wishing on a star
And trying to believe
That even though it’s far
He’ll find me Christmas Eve
I guess that Santa’s busy
Cause he’s never come around
I think of him
When Christmas Comes to Town
I am conscious of putting my hand over my mouth and staring at him with wonder. The camera is forgotten on my lap. Everything is forgotten but my beautiful boy. Then from the side of the stage comes:
The best time of the year
When everyone comes home
With all this Christmas cheer
It’s hard to be alone
And my daughter, dressed in her soft pink dressing gown, comes out singing. Beneath the hem of the robe I see her favorite pajamas, the cornflower blue ones with the rosebuds. She’s wearing the slippers she loves, the ones with a fairy princess on the top. Her voice is a soft, gentle soprano, and she’s smiling as she sings. She misses a note and I am absolutely charmed by it.
Putting up the Christmas tree
With friends who come around
It’s so much fun
When Christmas Comes to Town
Presents for the children
Wrapped in red and green she sings, walking to Nick’s side.
All the things I’ve heard about
But never really seen Nick counters.
They reach out without looking and take each other’s hands, just as they always did when they were little. “Take Sisi’s hand! Hold Dada’s hand!” we’d call to them as they’d unsteadily toddle into nursery. Later they held hands and ran into reception class. And now they stand on the edge of stage center, holding hands as they sing together. Our lives together tear through my mind – injections. Ultrasounds. Difficult birth. Colic. Laughing as they walked. Cuddles. Chicken pox. Nick and his lights. Nora and her books. Every single moment slams into me and I can’t breathe for the size of it all.
No one will be sleeping on
The night of Christmas Eve
Hoping Santa’s on his way
They both hit the high, sweet notes with absolute perfection and I am crying like a child, my heart having exploded at that moment. Large tears pour down my face as I watch my two children sing a song I’ve loved for years. I don’t know how they came to be able to inherit the singing gene that both Alastair and I lack but I know I will listen for it for the rest of my life. I exhale, having just realized I’ve been holding my breath.
Fake snow starts to drift from the ceiling over the stage, and I watch as pieces of it light in my son’s blond hair, lodge in my daughter’s long dark ponytail. The spotlight hits errant snowflakes and they illuminate like silver stars. I am the happiest woman in the history of the world.
When Santa’s sleigh bells ring
I listen all around
The herald angels sing
I never hear a sound
When all the dreams of children
Once lost will all be found
That’s all I want
When Christmas Comes to Town
That’s all I want
When Christmas Comes to Town
They finish together, holding the last note like little robins and I am covered with goosebumps.
As the music fades out, the stand there and grin. The audience applauds, and I find myself shooting to my feet, applauding them madly.
The Headmistress comes out and announces an intermission and I practically plow people down to get backstage. I don’t even pick up my purse or the camera or check to see if Alastair is with me, I just run for it. I look around in the hallway backstage, and see Nick and Nora immediately.
“Mummy!” they shriek, seeing me. They come flying at me, then stop uncertainly.
“Mummy, why are you crying?” Nick asks uncertainly.
“Didn’t you like it?” Nora asks nervously. “We really wanted to surprise you!”
I drop to my knees in front of them and grab one of each of their hands. Tears continue to pour from my face.
“I am crying because I am the luckiest mum in the whole wide world, ever,” I say, smiling, “because I get to call myself your mum. I am so, so proud of you. You are the most wonderful babies, I am so very happy and I am your mum,” I say stupidly, stating the bleeding obvious. “I am your mum and it is the best thing in the world!” I grab them to me and squeeze until they shriek with laughter. “I love you, my babies. Thank you for such a lovely surprise.”
Alastair comes up behind me and engulfs Nick and Nora. He kisses the side of their heads and smiles broadly. “I think this calls for a curry, don’t you think?”
“Yes!” shouts Nick, punching the air with victory. “And naan? And pappadoms?”
“Is it a curry without those things?”
“Can we eat it there, instead of takeaway?”
“We can do if you’d like,” he replies.
Alastair, holding the camera and my bag in one hand, takes Nora’s hand. Nora takes Nick’s hand. Nick takes mine. And we walk down that hallway and into the night, to curry, to Christmas.
“Mum?” Nora asks as we leave the building. “Can we watch Elf again tonight?”
“Darling,” I reply, laughing into the cold night air, “I thought you’d never ask.”
We went to the Midlands this weekend to visit my sort-of-father-in-law and his slightly nervy wife this weekend. I like them both very much, it’s just they’re…well…they’re out of my league, let’s just say that. One of their neighbors is a viscount. Their next door neighbor has put his house on the market.
You don’t want to know how much it’s listed for.
No really, you don’t.
Just know that the guy who owns it has 5 trophy cars, two of them are Ferraris. Yes really.
I walk around the neighborhood and can’t help but think “You’re a long way from Kansas, Dorothy.” This is usually followed by “Surrender Dorothy!” Then I get on to thoughts of wondering how flying monkeys can actually fly, so this is where the metaphor to my extremely modest childhood ends or, in fact, my very modest present. Just start with “not posh” and downgrade it from there.
It’s moderately terrifying being the mother of twin toddlers in a house like the in-laws’. It’s chock full of antiques and Things Which Cost More Than I Am Worth. For this reason the children are watched like hawks and generally told they should just sit in hallway with a plastic tub and some wooden spoons. Luckily this suits them well.
I like my sort-of-stepmother-in-law very much, but she’s slightly special. Having never had children herself, she’s not always the easiest person to be around with youngsters. For one thing, she’s germaphobic. I remember a few years ago when my son was sitting on her lounge floor and one drop of drool came out of his teething mouth. She panicked and made her husband scrub it off the carpet. To this day I’m nervous about touching or doing anything in her home.
Luckily, she really likes the twins. It’s hard not to, because I know I’m biased, but they’re really pretty cute.
On Sunday we went to Wansford Station to see the steam trains of Nene Valley Railway. Because I don’t live with just one train enthusiast. I live with three of them.
There was something for everyone. The big kids were satisfied.
And surprisingly, they had something for the little train fans, too.
That’s right. Thomas the Tank Engine showed up. And unbelievably, Nick didn’t seem that bothered by it (he was checking out the lighting at the station, instead). But Nora was absolutely mesmerized.
(Like the hat? It attracted a lot of attention. I bought it from here, but I didn’t buy just the one.)
That night the four of us all slept in the same room. Nick wound up snuggled next to me in the big bed halfway through the night. He had a cold and seemed uneasy. He slept lengthwise in the bed and would only sleep if he held my hand – if our hands let go, he’d wake up. It was not even a little bit restful for me.
I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.
Sunday we popped the babies in rucksacks and went for a stroll in the countryside and bumped into some of the in-laws’ neighbors, who invited us round for coffee.
We went into the house.
My response was My god, who are these people?, rather akin to this:
The place was gorgeous and absolutely chock full of antique china, pottery, and porcelain, all conveniently located on surfaces located at toddler level.
I feel shaky just thinking about it.
So we had a lovely coffee and a chin wag with the nice neighbors, all while I was at Defcon 5 watching the twins like a hawk. Luckily they touched nothing apart from some old Pingu books the kind hostess loaned us to keep the babies occupied.
It was a nice weekend though. My sort-of-stepmother-in-law is a fabulous cook and we partook of her good cooking (in other news, I’ve put on a kilo. I feel kind of good about that, also sort of nervous about putting back all the weight October saw me lose. Why yes, I am glad I’m still in therapy.)
Everyone had a nice time.
And now no more weekends away, but instead today I’m hoping to decorate the house. I have a little lighting fanatic who’s ready for some Christmas decorations.
-S.
PS – I like Susan Boyle. I really do. I’ve even talked about her here, and I won’t touch those X-Factor-Britain’s-Got-Talent-Big-Brother-Celebrity-Get-Me-Out-of-Here shite with a barge pole. But Boyle’s rendition of Wild Horses is so bad it makes me want to kill myself. No, it’s worse – it makes me want to kill wild horses so that she can’t sing about them any more.
Wild Welsh ponies, you’d better watch your step, man.
PPS – one week to Around the World in 80 Blogs. Grab your camera and tell the world about where you live and what you love about it.
Nick and Nora have made leaps and bounds in development. Suddenly they’re putting words together in strings – “Mama shoes there!” and “Another baa there!” (baa is their term for sheep. It wasn’t exhausting hearing that every 20 seconds in Wales or anything.) It coincided with Mama having to make breakfast on an ancient Aga, so now they cruise into the kitchen in the morning saying – no joke – “Hiya mama! How ya doin’? Eggs? Toast? Juice?” So I’m less a nurturing figure in their life, more a short order cook. Nick, being the tall weedy boy that he is, is now able to reach the light switches. This means we spend an awful lot of time feeling like we’re in a bloody disco.
I’ve maintained all along that Nick and Nora develop at their own pace, a pace which I don’t mind. It happens when it happens. They have at various turns been behind. I refuse to be drawn, but I confess sometimes comments get my hackles up. Witness last night, talking to an acquaintance –
“Sheila McBusybody’s daughter is four months younger than your two and is already potty trained!” said acquaintance crowed.
“Really? Well buy that kid a morter board and sign them up for fucking Mensa,” I reply calmly.
Won’t be drawn, like I said. Will be overly defensive though.
Since I have you here, can I ask for help? What do you get nursery staff for Christmas? I’m looking for help, here. Your ideas, people, are often fabulous, and I imagine another box of Cadbury’s Milk Tray will make the lovely nursery teachers groan.
I’m buying myself one of these as a treat. I’ve located one in the States, it’s arranging the shipping that’s proving tricky as the things are not light. Still, I think I almost have it sorted, and my present to myself should hopefully be here in a few weeks. I rarely buy myself presents but instead buy them for other people. This time I found my present in a salvage yard. I’m going to pretend that’s not a statement about myself.
I started reading this book while on holiday (seeing as I’ve divorced Diana Gabaldon for the latest pile of shit she’s produced). The book really isn’t my kind of thing, but I am more than halfway through it and am utterly engrossed.
What was I saying…?
Oh yes.
Last Friday, as we struggled into the Welsh rental house with two over-excited toddlers, a dog sniffing more layers of interesting things than he had in a long time, and luggage for England, I got a phone call.
Not only was I ready with some bubbly to celebrate my 10 year anniversary of being part of these here EU type parts, but I had a very late phone call from someone. Someone interesting. Someone who talked about a variety of things that were things I wanted to here.
Yesterday I handed in my notice of resignation to The Gig.
The company Why Yes, I’d Really Rather Like to Work For You would really rather like me to work for them, too.
I’ve spent the last five days exhaustively working with the board. It has been hard going and we’ve been closeted away in this massive board room. I was up against some tough negotiators – the two toughest negotiators known to man.
It’s been relentless. It starts over a full English (or, in our case, Welsh breakfast). These two drive hard bargains. It starts over coffee and juice and commences from there.
Of course, not only did I have to negotiate, but I had to cook said breakfast. On an Aga.
Which she may tell you is a piece of piss but I – who used to want an Aga but no longer does – can confirm that it’s hard work. Like the mornings when I wanted to make eggs and sausage and the eggs would be done in twenty seconds while the sausages were more like three days in the cooking.
Fortunately I was able to occasionally look outside the board room window and see a sunrise over Wales. It definitely takes the mind off.
Really spectacular sunrises.
Which is good as the days were spent lugging the weight of the company around on my back.
On my back, on my knees…it was relentless with their demands.
Luckily, the other programme manager was there to help carry the agenda along.
And when the going got tough, the tough did team building along with our guide, who frankly was a little bit useless.
And he was no help whatsoever in negotiating the road signs.
And Christ were the traffic jams dreadful.
But the day out pub lunches were brilliant.
The days were worth it as we gathered round the table once again in the evenings to discuss strategies.
Aided by a cool and kooky fireplace.
And team building got much more fun once the liquids flowed.
Although sometimes I got to enjoy a little me time, which was nice.
And we would all let our hair down and dress business casual in the evenings.
And we concluded the business meetings happily, peacefully, and the strategy is set.
You all rock for the Around the World in 80 Blogs and I am going to read (and pimp) each and every person who signs up. More details to come but what about we try to post on, say, Monday the 14th of December? That works?
Tomorrow in my former home country of America, it is Thanksgiving.
Here it is a glorious and amazing day known as Thursday. It will be followed by Friday. Then Saturday. Then…well, maybe you’ve cottoned on.
Friday the 27th marks the 10 year anniversary of the day I boarded a flight to Stockholm from Raleigh-Durham airport in North Carolina and made my residency in the EU.
I realized the other day that Maggie is creeping up on 10 years old now. She is the oldest pet that I have ever owned as an adult. I love my pets fiercely but they just don’t seem to live long. I also realized that this house, the one I am in now, is the one I have lived in for the longest as well. I am heading on 4 years in this house and as a military child and a nomadic adult, this is also a record.
My relationship with Alastair is also my longest running romantic relationship in my life.
A lot has happened. Who we were as a couple is gone and gone forever as are, actually, who Shannon was and who Alastair was and everyone involved agrees that’s absolutely for the best. But we spent almost the entire month of October talking and talking and talking. I’ve never cried or been so angry in my life, and apparently this is a good thing. Out of respect for his privacy and the privacy of our relationship, I won’t be blogging about the details of what has transpired. There has to be a boundary for things in my previously boundary-less life. This is one new boundary. I have many new boundaries. My Couch Man has been trying to get me to have boundaries and I never understood that until now.
At Thanksgiving every year I would hold a great big bash full of food and booze and friends and laughter. This year, Thanksgiving will pass by unnoticed. I have a ticket to a show tomorrow and will go and see it and try to relax. Every year on Thanksgiving I and all of my friends would go around the table and list things we were grateful for that year. Although my table is empty, Tom the Turkey keeps his head on and his ass un-stuffed, and no Black Friday will occur, I can say the following:
I am thankful for my Lemonheads.
I am thankful for my friends, who have been listening to me and not judging me.
I am thankful for Gorby and Maggie and Mac.
I am thankful for everyone who comments, emails, and reads.
I am thankful for my job and for this house.
I am thankful for therapy – the couples therapy that we are going through and the help that both Alastair and I are getting.
I am thankful for Alastair, who has become a friend and equal partner.
We are trying therapy and working towards putting how we used to be behind us. It may or may not work and we accept that and the consequences that implies. There are some big things to be dealt with. Walking away would be easier. But we have many years behind us, a house, a dog, two cats, and most importantly four children that need us. We owe them this chance, just as we owe it to ourselves. Solicitors and estate agents have been stood down.
And that’s all I’m going to say about that.
I’m going away for a few days to a small cottage in a bleak and remote part of Wales, with a dog, two bouncy toddlers, and the man who has instituted bedtime reading to babies.
I’m so, so random these days it’s unreal. I saw a photo a lovely contact of mine had posted and realized that my life will not be complete unless I get a disused American pay phone, of the variety that the phone companies are chucking away. I know not why I need a pay phone, I live only to obey. So the hunt is on. Seeing as pay phones are heavy fuckers and I live in Blighty, getting one over here isn’t going to be easy.
I love a challenge.
A lot is happening over here, so I thought I would help focus attention on an idea I had. It was triggered by John Bloody Barrowman being in Children in Need and doing a charity version of Around the World in 80 Days. I’ve opted to do Around the World in 80 Blogs.
Here’s the thought – blogging is huge. Big stuff. I think the average is now 1 in 10 people in Westernized countries blog. So why aren’t we more connected? Here’s my thought, then: Let’s get 80 blogs together from across the world. On the same day, we will post about our lives in our parts of the prospective worlds, just a glimpse of what things are like in each little bubble that we blog from. We can connect, find something to tell others about our lives and our areas that maybe they never knew, and maybe for a day link the world up a bit. You read about my quiet little corner of Hampshire, but what about your areas? What is it like in your area, in your life? What is your day like, and what makes where you live so special to you?
Stupid idea? Worthwhile?
Let me know if you’re interested. I’d like to start the ball rolling. No duplicate cities, maybe, but multiples from countries are obviously a given. I know people from England, Italy, Japan, Hong Kong, Australia, New Zealand (and we have a Tasmanian amongst us, too!), America, Canada, and more I’m sure read here. So jump on in? I’ll start and I hereby annex northern Hampshire for the Around the World in 80 Blogs.
I don’t really check my stats apart from checking to see how people come and go from this site. Some of the search engine hits that lead people to my site crease me up. Here are a few examples:
everyday stranger Seek and ye shall find. everydaystranger Go ahead and space between those bad boys. in the night garden pontipines They’re weird, over-procreating little fuckers. rice a roni jokes I don’t know any. I don’t know anyone else who does either. The reason? Rice a Roni isn’t funny. Move on. www.everydaystranger.com Not me, but some asshole is sitting on the domain and wants an extortionate sum for it, but thanks for rubbing that in. “feelings are unproductive” A-MEN. CVS twins miscarriage risks The risk as I was told is less than 1%. I’ve been there. It’s a rough thing to go through, and I’m so sorry. how can i focus on necessary things when When what? You have spinach in your teeth? David Tennant has only two more episodes to go? You can’t finish the fucking sentence? white pubic hair Look I only thought I had a white one. It wasn’t white. It was blond. And why are you Googling something like this, just pluck that bad boy? gothic tranny mistress To each his own, man. To each his own. australian tranny melbourne I don’t know of any personally, but I am regretting the title I chose for that Dame Edna post now. vintage thanksgiving cards I believe those are the ones where the pilgrims are repaying the debt of maize, yams and turkey from the Indians with smallpox, syphilis and alcoholism. Not exactly the kind of card you want to send to show that when you care you send the very best. 9dp3dt stomach pains It could be anything. Please don’t panic. This is a tough time, but you’re nearly through the 2ww. Hang in there. stopped disassociating You can do it. It can be done. It isn’t easy, but it can be done. everyday stranger is ok Awwwwww….I love you. “do you know how beautiful you are” Not really. But I really really love you for saying something nice like that. “down into the valley of death rode” Dude – dosages. They can be adjusted. everydaystranger posterchild for why ivf Works? Cheers. gnome before christmas Never gnome before Christmas, mate. It’s like white shoes before Labor Day. nice beads They’re called breasts, actually. But yes, they’re spectacular. children in need recipes They taste good with salsa on them. he saw my tampon It happens. Roll with it. If he freaks out over a little white bullet-shaped fiberglass, he’s not the one for you. tackiest christmas decorations Fuck you.
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