Date Night Take Two

One night, before the Christmas visit from our oldest Son, we had mind-sucking aliens enter our house. Since all of our memories were erased (of many failed attempts for Walton-family reunions of the past) we foolishly began planning all of the fun things we would do as a family.

Aware that the oldest probably hadn't had any of his memories stolen, we bought tickets for events without asking him. Ok, we knew he'd grumble, but with a ticket in front of him, how much could he really object? famous last words

Dad, ever the one with impeccable timing, presented our plans to a son who just traveled all night long in a cramped airline seat and was now facing a 3-hour life-risking drive with his father.  He wasn't pleased.

"Why didn't anyone ask me if I wanted to do those things?"
"Because we knew you'd say no".

SO...

We dragged the entire bunch to London the see The Gruffalo. Son #1 made sure his feelings were known that we, as parents of multiple feral children, were incapable of herding our bunch through the tube systems of London and chose to do it himself causing everyone unnecessary stress.

The show was nice. The kids liked it. Oldest Son refused to talk to any of us for the entire tube ride back to the car. I think he liked the Gruffalo though... I didn't dare ask.

After that fun day out, we were grateful that we had fought the urge to spend a hefty sum to take us all to see the pantomime in Norwich.

 

Note 1:Pantomimes are a huge tradition during the Christmas and New Year period. In four years, we've never ventured out to see the "Dame" (man in drag) or to join in with the fun audience participation ("Oh no it isn't" "Oh yes it is!" and booing/hissing as the villain took the stage) because by the time we thought about it, the seats were booked.

Note 2: British people know how to plan holidays, booking a year in advance for trips or activities--we are slow-thinking Americans that can't make a decision on the day, much less a year in advance. 

Hubby LONGED for the opportunity to shout back at the actors, "It's behind you!" He nearly pouted when we crossed it off our "Things to torture oldest son with during the holidays" list.

The anniversary rolled around and the thought of watching half of a movie or eating pizza in a family- restaurant/cubicle was discouraging, so I have to admit I might have been a wee bit snarky as the Hubby was frantically coming up with ideas.

However,

when he announced that he had just purchased tickets to the Panto in Norwich, I was thrilled on several levels.

• 1. He did something spontaneous for the first time in 14 years. 
• 2. It was something we've never done before. 
• 3. He did something spontaneous for the first time in 14 years that I didn't have to nudge him into, or book it, or pay for it.

We grabbed our coats and off we went.

As I sat there guffawing hysterically (yes, I nearly snorted), I was thinking that I definitely have to recommend to all 6 of my readers: if you are ever in England, you MUST SEE A PANTOMIME. 

Now in retrospect, I'm not sure if that's wise. The humor comes from British politics, jabs at celebrities and local references (we REALLY enjoyed the Norwich City Football references, especially when they jeered at our football rivals, Ipswich Town).
One actor was wearing the bright yellow socks with green accents-- only a NCFC follower would even get that. Two actors are from popular nighttime soaps (remember how America was with Dallas or Dynasty?) whose celebrity status would be lost on a foreign visitor (you might catch on when the audience squeals as they appear on stage though).

Our good friends were so pleased that we enjoyed it since the Americans they took to a panto sat there looking like they were at a funeral.

I enjoyed our anniversary date SO much this year that we came straight home and booked this past friday to take the kids-- who loved it. Miss Ky couldn't quit talking about "the baddy who was good now" and A2 LOVED that kids his age were pulled up on stage. 

I only wish we had forced Son #1 to see it.

Maybe we could needle him to come again next year and partake in another family bonding experience... he's got my DNA, surely he got some of my bad memory as well.

You Brought a Snack, All Things British

Do you know what today is?

It is officially Twilight eve. Time to get the kiddies snuggled in their beds, so visions of vampires can dance around in mine. One more day...



Oh, did I mention it's ALSO the day my oldest man-child arrives from the states?


He'll be jet-lagged and passed out for the first three days he's here so I have no problem saying, "Welcome home, here's your bed, I'm going to the cinema!"

Footy Mum and I will leave early mainly because it's friday, it's a city and traffic and parking can get maniacal. That leaves the issue of hungry tummys. Not to fear, Cinema snacks are here.
We can get these:
or these:
but we won't be looking for buttered popcorn.

Popcorn is sweet, like a carmel or toffee popcorn but not so sticky as what we're used to. I don't even know why I'm talking about popcorn since it has been BANNED in several cinemas already. (Even more interesting, did you know that some people are unaware we get gouged when buying movie snacks? There's an uproar from folks who are just now realizing this fact).

Never mind, I'm sure we can grab a Doner kebab (remember, say "kuh BAaaB"--like a sheep) afterwards. That or a curry can be picked up nearly at every corner (I love it here!).

Part of the UK cinema experience is the silly anti-cell-phone use (during movie) advertisements. They're fun enough to make sure I'm in my seat on time. (You REALLY should watch one: Val Kilmer, Darth Vader, Snoop Dog, Macaulay Culkin, Joan of Arc ). The rest of the adverts are from auto makers (I could happily skip those and might go back to the concession stand to pick up more fun stuff).

A new house, a prodigal son, a vampire and sweets...

Can one overdose on excitement?!

Gettin' Fawksey Wit It

In 1605 Guido Fawkes, a revolutionist, attempted to carry out what is today known as the Gunpowder Plot.
Guy Fawkes was unsuccessful in blowing Parliament to pieces.

You can't have more bad breaks than this guy... seriously, next time you're whinging about the bad day you're having, think of this. Everything that could go wrong with this plot did, including two suspensions the meeting of Parliament which led to a hasty application of the plan and resulted in his conviction of treason.

What did he have to show for his time and trouble?

A whole nation annually celebrates his getting caught and makes wax images of him to scoff at and stuffed effigies to burn.

.

November 5th is the official date, but anytime the week of marks the beginning of the celebrations.
Some areas have the lighting of a huge barrel of tar that will travel through the cheering crowds like rock star.

I personally don't understand why no one thinks this is a strangely dangerous activity. "Hey mom, look! The barrel of burning tar is coming right for us...oh, poor man he trippedaaaaaaaaaghhh my skin!"



Here in Norfolk there's no tar, just a nice cozy bonfire to burn the effigy of Guy Fawkes (sick, I know), with music, fireworks, chips and burgers and plenty of cheaply made glowing toys for the kids to break.

Remember, remember the fifth of November

Gunpowder, treason and plot.

I see no reason, why gunpowder treason

Should ever be forgot.

Remember, remember, the fifth of November,

Gunpowder, treason and plot!

A stick or a stake for King James' sake

Will you please to give us a fagot

If you can't give us one, we'll take two;

The better for us and the worse for you!

Or:

Guy, guy, guy

Poke him in the eye,

Put him on the bonfire,

And there let him die.

Yeah, I told you it was sick.

As we drove to the event we'd be attending this year at RAF Marham, I stupidly excitedly looked forward to watching this spectacle from a large field blanketed in fog. I love fog.


I didn't think far enough ahead to realize that we wouldn't be able to see the fireworks...
so we ooh'd and Ahhhh'd at all the right moments and laughed hysterically at ourselves for subjecting our children to the cold and damp on a school night.

We laughed until we realized the hot ash from the fireworks and bonfire was raining down on us like an eruption from Mt. Vesuvius.
Well, we still laughed, but with our mouths closed.
Hubby said the ash tasted terrible.

We LOVE living here!

All Things British- Fancy Dress

For those of you that have been worrying about me, I have survived the woman's version of the man cold. And hear me now-- I will never make fun of my husband's suffering again.

Ok, he's left the room now, so we can really talk.

Here's how it is. When I'm sick, sick enough to go down, it usually means the laundry, the school duties, life will be waiting for me when I get up. And today was no exception.
It looks like the laundry fairy threw up all over my laundry room-- and boy has she eaten a lot in the last few days.

I woke up this morning from my NyQuil-induced coma in a panic. I remembered that yesterday while I was down, I needed to be at Tesco's buying my child things for his Victorian lunch (I'll get back to that). So now I needed to bake. Quick-like. With four mini-beasts circling me all drooling at the smell of food. I baked corn muffins and cake brownies and prayed my head cold wouldn't attack again until after I got the kids off.

Have I ever told you that when we moved here, I felt like I was coming home?
There's a number of reasons I've felt that way, but this time of year I'm reminded of something else.

I grew up LOVING Halloween. Living in a small town, we were safe trick-or-treating into the dark hours, really safe -- some homes actually gave treats like popcorn balls and caramel apples. We carried pillow cases instead of those silly little miniscule buckets and came home with them filled. The best part of Halloween night was coming home with first place of the costume contests. And I usually did. I say usually, because there was a fierce competition going on between my mother and another woman, both seamstresses. One year, my mom got REALLY perturbed with me because I announced to the class that I was going to be a bride. To my mom, it was a betrayal, and that year, I wasn't a bride after all. Despite this sick obsession (that somehow escaped my attention), I love getting dressed up.
When we moved here, you know, moved "home", one thing I was alerted to was the term "fancy dress". We began receiving "fancy dress" party invitations. Halloween or Fancy- I don't care, just give me a costume (me in glitter, soft fabrics, sleeky legs in stilettos= a costume)-- yeah, count me in.
However, I wasn't being invited, my kids were! Like I'm going to rent a tux for J2 to play football in or buy Miss Ky something glittery to get finger paint all over. whatever you crazy people.

A fancy dress party is a costume party. And the Brits like costume parties. I'm in Heaven-- I can buy costumes year round. There's even a special time every year, Book Week, when the kids dress up like their favourite book character. Many birthday parties are themed around pirates or princesses. There's more... like contests for example. Currently being held in the UK is a contest: Dress up like Angus from ACDC and you could win a trip to see the band! (If you're dressing like Angus regularly, you need a free trip to the fashion police station).

So what the heck is this post about anyway?

I'm trying to tell you in my own rambling, I've-had-too-much-NyQuil way, that I love living here. My kids are having some of the greatest opportunities of a lifetime.

J2 left for school today in a victorian get-up and was driven (by coach) with his classmates, to a victorian school where they had lessons, played games and ate their lunches of crusty breads, cheeses and chunks of meat (and a small cake) all wrapped up tidily in a tea towel.

The coach driver asked me, "You're not going?"
"No, I hung around and gave them lots of opportunities to ask me, but they just didn't"
"You have a costume?"
"Of course, doesn't everyone?"

Don't YOU have a tudor costume hanging in your wardrobe?

Well you'd better think of getting one if you intend to visit for any real length of time-- it's not just tea and biscuits over here!

All Things British Day

Some military families do their best to live on base, regardless of what country or U.S. state they're stationed in.
They find comfort in the "cookie cutter" houses with tiny lawns and safety in the gated atmosphere. They might even take a little pleasure in the structure Military Housing gives them with the 2-page list of rules (everything from yard maintenance to dishwasher regulations).
It's sad to see people get an assignment like what we're living now--they have a new country, culture, FOOD and a new language (I am NOT kidding, you U.S folks may think you speak English, but I guarantee you, you don't)-- that choose to live in mini-America, with their American fast food and American neighbors.
The kids go to schools on base, daycare on base, youth clubs on base. Women go to craft clubs, Officer and Enlisted Wives clubs and movies--on base. Some stay on base for their entire tour, having never seen the local sights, much less traveled to see anything else.
What do they miss?


Well, since my kids are attending British schools, we have participated in things we never knew existed. Guy Fawkes Bonfire nights (effigy burning at it's finest), Christingles and Boxing Day are a few. We attend school and village Fetes, Hen Parties and coffee mornings; get smoothly from point A to B with the fabulous round-a-bouts and I have discovered dishes that I can't imagine living without.

My kids say things like, "That was well good!"
"I've got all of the bits for that game".
"Ring me and I'll come round yours" and
"G'night Mum"

Living in the British community is an amazing experience,

But most importantly,

We know what a Tardis looks like.










(you realize without me telling you that this is NOT my picture, right?)




Today, one of the radio personalities was going on about how dull the GB national anthem is. When asked what it should be changed to, he replied, "Well the Dr. Who theme of course".
I chuckled, but then thought, "He's right."
After all, you will not ever meet a Brit that doesn't know what you're talking about if you mention "Dalek".
This isn't like the Trekkies, or the Star Wars..um.. -ies?
No, perfectly average people slip out of social events to catch the next episode (not to insinuate that Star Wars fanatics are extreme..Hi Hubby!).
One can buy Dr. Who merchandise anywhere and watch it on three different channels. It's silly and sometimes scary (like a Killer Tomatoes movie might be scary), but always entertaining.
It is the longest running sci fi tv series EVER.
I bet the people in Mini-America don't know that. Knowledge is power, folks and this is information that could come in very useful someday.


We went to Scotland the first month we were here. I was VERY pregnant and went on an Outdoor Recreation trip (read the words again and then understand this translates to: You will see sights while hiking up hills no one realized Britain has) with two of my boys.

As we blasted through Edinburgh someone shouted, "Ooh, a tardis! I have to get a photo!"

NOT having the slightest idea what they were so excited about, I half-heartedly lifted my camera and snapped a nice blurry shot.
I could kick myself now.

But I won't. Because at least I left my house to long enough to see one.

What are you missing where you're living? What would a sight-hungry tourist want to do in your neck of the woods that you've never done?

You're Invited to Tea

Scrolling Saturday was this wonderful idea by Manners and Moxie and suchsimplepleasures Whether or not they're doing it anymore, I'm grateful for the opportunity to scroll back to a sillier time to recycle a post.

Friday, April 4, 2008

We Support Safe Eating

Setting: The Grockle Family dinner table.

Attendees: All but the big one-- #1 son.

Meal: Tacos and Spanish rice (say it with me, "Tack-ohs" which cracks me up. We're supposed to say, "Bah-Nah-Nah" and "Pah-jah-mah", but the British say "Tack-oh").

A rubber goes flying across the table and lands on the Hubby's plate.

We all crack up.

It's A1's rubber (the 8 year-old), he has carried it all over the house since he got it at a birthday party, but tonight Miss Ky, who has been released from her high chair prison, lofts it onto Dad's plate. And we laugh.

Only in England would this be funny...

Your All Things British moment for this week:

Rubber=eraser, because it rubs out the mistakes you make in pencil.

And since we don't have that "Back to School" shopping frenzy you suffer in the States, the school freely hands these out and not one parent is upset by it.

Doesn't Every Beach Sell Doughnuts? All Things British

We arrived at our camping spot around 2pm.

To be honest, the Hubby and I really took our time getting ready to go because
1.) It was drizzly and cold (and we had T-storms only two nights before) and
2.) the people we were supposed to camp with had gone mad and invited 20 other people in addition to our family of six.

Plus we were taking Dog, formerly and currently known as Jake....

Instead of the family tent, we took two dome tents to save time and space. We put those up quickly, headed down to the sea (to tell it we had arrived) and then took a walk into the village... for doughnuts.

Of course I documented it for you.


This is the Pied Piper of Palling, my Hubby-- with waaaay too many kids.

Oh wait, most of them are ours.

Every little village has it's own sign.
I could fill an album just with signs....

And how silly can you get with this one? Hey, I find that A Palling! Oh no, we're Palling down...yeah, apparently not very silly.

Among other things, the doughnut shop also sells ice cream. With flake.

The first week we were in GB, I wanted a soft-serve cone. With a very thick British accent, the vendor asked if I wanted that with flake.. "Um.., what? Sure, ok..." (smiling stupidly like a tourist who is over-excited to be somewhere will)
He handed me a cone of vanilla ice cream with what appeared to be a big piece of wood sticking out of it.
Flake is a Twix-sized chunk of chocolate (It's very aerated and therefore tastes and breaks like outdated chocolate). Everyone here has to have it, me... not so much so.
Chocolate should NOT be messed with-- not like that, anyway.

Oh, we've made it to the shop....Inside, I'm waiting patiently. Taking pictures helps pass the fifty or so seconds it takes to make a doughnut. She suckered me into EIGHT since the little bags fit four. (so?)

I only wanted six, but ok, if you insist.I'm ready, I'm ready....

She adds the sugar.
Caster, Cinnamon, or chocolate?Guess. Just try and guess which one I picked.


YUM.

Totally unrelated subject:

One day we were walking around a car boot (the infamous one where Miss Ky tried to adopt a new home) and the little beasty child was in her "push chair" (stroller), admiring every dog. "Woof woof" she would say as they walked on by.
One lady stopped so Miss Ky could "woof" a little closer to her furry companion. The dog lifted his leg on the push chair. I've told you how fond Britain is of dogs, so kicking him wasn't an option.
I did gasp and attempt to convince the wheels to go a direction they're not designed to go to put a little distance between Ky and the golden stream-- that she most likely would try to put her graham cracker into...
And the lady says, "Healmostnik'dyourbikkie,didn'the?"

Wha..?

I did what I usually do when I have no clue what someone just said to me, I smiled and walked away. ("So, you're one meaty gal and I bet you tip the car, don't you?" Me, smiling and nodding my head).

Anyway, as I was walking and thinking how that naughty old lady said those terrible words about dogs and their privates to my sweet little angel--"niky bicky", holy cow can we be crass?!-- her words finally managed to make their way through my brain's Babel Fish.

"He almost nicked (stole) your Bickie (biscuit--cracker), didn't he?"

She had had no idea he was wee-ing on my push chair, because she was looking at Miss Ky and her cracker. I'm the one with my mind In The Gutter and thinking of dogs' nether areas...

Back to the beach...
The penny arcade.

You put a two-pence coin in to win more two-pence coins or a lolli (sucker).

My opinion on why this is a dumb idea...

First of all, why would I want more two p's when they're heavy in the purse and worthless? My other option to win is more sugar for kids I just fed eight doughnuts?


Oh well, it's all in a day at the beach...

We Support Safe Eating

Setting: The Grockle Family dinner table.

Attendees: All but the big one-- #1 son.

Meal: Tacos and Spanish rice (say it with me, "Tack-ohs" which cracks me up. We're supposed to say, "Bah-Nah-Nah" and "Pah-jah-mah", but they say "Tack-oh").

A rubber goes flying across the table and lands on the Hubby's plate.
We all crack up.
It's A1's rubber (the 8 year-old), he has carried it all over the house since he got it at a birthday party, but tonight Miss Ky, who has been released from her high chair prison, lofts it onto Dad's plate. And we laugh.
Only in England would this be funny...

Your All Things British moment for this week:
Rubber=eraser, because it rubs out the mistakes you make in pencil.

And since we don't have that "Back to School" shopping frenzy you suffer in the States, the school freely hands these out and not one parent is upset by it.

Be Afraid, Be VERY Afraid...

****


The sleep over has begun..... holy cow, what was I thinkin'?!

The day started by going to hospital--the Emergency Room (Pediatrics actually suggested it since they couldn't get us in until 10 am) for Miss Ky. She had popped the tendon out on her elbow...who knows how, but she was in a lot of pain. Poor little thing. She is fine now and using both arms like nothing ever happened.

A1 received an award today at assembly, but since we were watching Her Highness get x-rays on her arm, we couldn't watch him smile shyly as he was honoured for his great skills in Maths :-(

And if you think I've lost my ability to put a sentence together, let's do an All Things British day, shall we?

Before we moved here, I thought the guidebooks were all messed up. Places were called "Wells-next-the-sea".
Ummm, did you forget to put the "to"?
Oh, wait, there's "Southend-on-sea" as well.

People don't go to THE hospital here, they go to hospital. They go to Temple, and the kids take Maths... which is quite logical really. There isn't just ONE math-- you have geometry, algebra, Trig. etc... so they go to Maths.
And A1 received an award for his.

As much as I'd like to stay and ramble, I've already had three kids come in to tell me what new wound they've received, one getting a punch in the groin by J2... and A1's best mate, Harry has brought a tub of gummies and two bags of marshmallows to share-- I know where you live Jo (his Mum and my now ex-friend)!
Somebody shoot me now. Then take me to hospital so I can get some rest.

Today's your Birthday...

----beeep----
(real high-pitched, sing-song voice)
"Hiya!
J the Grockle? I'm calling to RSVP for A1's birthday sleepover. Obnoxious Hyperactive Son would love to come, and I am so thrilled you invited him--especially after that little incident last year at the farm when he nearly bit his tongue off and you had to sit with him as he choked in his own blood (instead of seeing your precious little boy pet the farm animals). Oh, and don't worry about the incident at H's party, Obnoxious seems to be getting a little more coordinated, so I highly doubt that he will trip and crack his head at your party. One last thing though, he is having issues with bedwetting. It seems to be only happening when he drinks anytime after noon and especially with fizzy drinks. Could you please limit his drinking without the other kids knowing--I don't want him to get embarrassed. Thank you for inviting him. He loves A1-- probably because A1 is just about the kindest child anyone could ever meet.
(real high pitch here-- the voice goes waaaay up on good byes--even the men do it) Biyeee!"
----beeeeeeeep---------

This post style was brought to you (by the ingenious Painted Maypole) in the style of an answering machine message. Check out her Blog for more great Monday posts ideas.

And Happy Birthday, to my "Sweet, sweet Petunia" (a silly name we gave him as a wee guy-- it's from Veggie Tales). The boy who always runs back to give Mum an extra hug. The boy who loves his sister dearly. The boy who slipped in shyly as I was weeding my way through the nightmare face-lift on the ol' Mac, to ask if I was the one who picked out the craft gift for him. "I really like doing crafts and coloring and stuff", he said in his soft voice with his dimpled grin.

This blog's disclaimer: Obnoxious child really isn't obnoxious, but how funny would this message be if I said "Perfectly Friendly, although accident-proned Son loved by A1"?

Mothering Sunday or, The Plague is Coming!

Happy Mum's Day to you celebrating it. Mothering Sunday is held in March, usually preceded by a Saturday where Tesco's are bursting at the seams with frazzled men and their children. I was foolish enough to go in for scones yesterday and dang near didn't live to see my breakfast in bed this morning.

The first March we were here to experience the bombardment of adverts for the upcoming day, we were the very tired parents of a non-sleeping five-month old. I dashed about madly to get cards for our three mothers and spent hours contemplating the best British-type gift for the cherished women in our lives. Reflecting back, I remember thinking, "Has this holiday always been in March? I could've sworn it was in May." The Hubby never corrected me, but looked as bewildered as I was.
Imagine our surprise when we finally figured it all out-- and I was two months early for "our" holiday (I think I still mailed them late though).

This year, I'm better rested. I know now that I should buy my Mums cards on Monday (they'll disappear quick, these people don't mess around in changing holidays) to mail to the U.S in May.

This year I received breakfast in bed (oops, it was Fast Sunday),
and some of the most beautiful cards ever made (in my opinion). Mother's Day is getting better.



I used to dread Mother's Day like the plague and I'll tell you why (gee, must you?).

Every Mother's Day falls on Sunday-- strange coincidence, I know.
As a family, we strive to keep the Sabbath day holy-- pretty much like Biblical times, meaning: we don't work and don't want to be the cause of somebody else working.

All Mother's Day Brunches are on Sunday.

While happy Mother's all over the United States are washing crab legs down with champagne, I am bathing four very different kinds of stinky little critters that want to give me grief on everything from the clothes I've laid out to who each critter has to bathe with.

I've showered (before the dawn of time), fixed my hair hastily and dressed in the clothes I should've thrown out on my 5th wedding anniversary, but by the time the little beasts are fed, bathed and dressed, I look like I've been in a fight with a wet dog.

I do all of this while my husband attends church meetings. He then arrives (looking pretty scrumptious in his pressed, puke-free suit), five minutes before the meeting is to begin so that we can jointly tie--I mean safely hook--each wriggly, angry mini-monster into their car seat...while the teenager exudes attitude. ('nuff said)
We then begin the 2 1/2 hour drive to church.
Alright, I might be exaggerating on the time taken to commute to a building a few blocks away, but when children are screaming in your ear, time seems to go more slowly-- like "I think I remember that last ice age" slowly.

Next, I sit in a church meeting listening to MAN after MAN speak about how wonderful his mother was.
You know her.
She was the lady that NEVER raised her voice at the children, always had a clean, warm home and delicious meals on the table that said MAN would never have dreamt of saying, "I don't like that! Can't we just have chicken nuggets like billy's family?".

I am shrinking further and further into my wrinkled, Mork & Mindy-style cowl-necked sweater (or did I buy it during the Three's Company run?) wishing for the roof to collapse.

Can it get worse? Of course it can!

The children are dragged up front to sing about their Moms, "Mother, I love you, Mother, I dooo--hoooo", all smiling lovingly at their perfectly pressed mothers. But mine....

My children have memories like elephants. They remember that I made them eat their greens the night before. They remember that I shouted at them before breakfast when they dropped a baseball on the baby's head...and when they dumped the bath water all over the floor while playing "sinking ship", and when we were getting in the car and again when they darted out of the car into a busy parking lot.
Yep, there is love just oozing from their smiles..NOT.
They look like someone pinched them. They're NOT singing, they are just looking terribly uncomfortable.
My scowling kids are given flowers to hand out to the mothers in the congregation. Luckily they don't try to pretend I'm not there-- in fact, now that they're waltzing through the aisles with flowers, they are each quite happy. One gives me some. Now I get to take home a beautiful reminder of Spring, WHO's LIFE WAS CRUELLY CUT SHORT TO COMMEMORATE THIS BLOODY, HAPPY HOLIDAY.

Um,
sorry about that.

That was past Mother's Day. Present Mothers Day is Mothering Sunday in the U.K.
For some reason, it just works better here.
The Hubby, who was scheduled to work, got a call before we left for church saying his shift was cancelled. He looked scrumptious in his pressed, puke-free suit-- but even better, he had bathed the kids while I dressed in something purchased in this decade.
My kids honored me. They sang. J2 even participated in a duet.. with a smile... directed at me! I came home with a potted flower, picked out of the box by the child that knew I liked purple.

I am feeling so fuzzy that I want to share this day with you, regardless of what month you observe it. Since I can't mail you a Mum's Day card, I am sending you flowers. Daffodils from my front garden. I even knocked the bugs off... you're welcome, and have a great Sunday!!

Sitting in the doorways...

Wow. That was some experience.

On an almost nightly basis, we have a little man come creeping into our room, where I (the super light sleeper) will lift the blanket and wrap it around him as he climbs in.
Well last night, after singing several horrendous rounds on Wii Karaoke American Idol, I was sleeping like a brick (nothing like thirty minutes of tearful, hard laughter to help you sleep).










Me before 1 am

Along comes the heaviest, nosiest child I have ever experienced. He stomps up the stairs, jumps up and down beside my bed and begins shaking it.

Alright, I know I was sleeping soundly for a couple of reasons.
My bed is a sturdy African Cherry Wood bed that stands high enough that even with my tall 9-year old, the matteress hits him about mid chest-- pretty hard to move it around.
I also can't imagine how any stomping could sound like a freight train.

So, still fuzzy headed, I lifted the blanket for him, but there was no one there. That's when my husband and I sat up simultaneously and said, "What the crap was that?!" It's not exactly what I said, but this is a G-rated blog.

We came downstairs to look around, still trying to determine-- was there a mangled plane crashed somewhere in our garden? Was our house side-swiped by a juggernaut? [All Things British moment: this is what we would call an 18-wheeler. It's a large lorry, or truck]

As I'm tossing these ideas around in my head, I knew it was probably an earthquake and was typing in the address for the U.K. Seismology department. Couldn't get through. Funny thing about that-- the morning news stations keep quoting the U.S.G.S. Dept. I know where to go next time. (next time?!)
My high-strung husband (not) then says, "I'm going back to bed".

"What?! What about the after shocks? What about the kids?".

I blogged (of course) and then sat in front of the telly listening to callers sharing their experiences.


Hats off to you in the western states. I would move. Some people find this stuff exciting. I find it thrilling in the same way of participating in a 36-car pile up on the freeway.

My dusty, useless degree contains a minor in Geology. I know what is happening inside the earth to shake the outside hard enough to mimic a stomping child and I don't like it. It has a way of reminding me how little control I have over the grand scheme of things and how little God consults with me before making any final decisions. I don't like it.

What I do like is the British sense of Humour.
They're playing Martika's version of "I Feel the Earth Move" today.


Oh wait, there's something coming across the telly on the news ticker...
"Largest earthquake felt in Britain in 25 years said to have been caused by...

Some really horrendous karaoke somewhere near Norwich."

Uh oh. The Americans have done it again.

The Importance of Support Groups...

There are so many support groups out there.

Depression and Bipolar Support Alliance, Mood Disorders Support Group, Divorce Recovery Support Group, Genetic Support Groups, Cancer Support groups as well as support groups for abuse, weight management, smoking cessation, alcohol abuse etc...



Basically, everyone's covered.




But there's something you may have overlooked in your busy, self-centered lives. Something you've never paid much attention to, mush less wondered or worried about.

I KNOW you've never lost sleep over it.



You should be ashamed, and thank me for opening your eyes to an organization that needs your respect. You see, some cases are so severe, it requires flashing lights (and maybe even sirens).
How many support groups do you belong to that can say that? Tsk Tsk Tsk people, pull your heads out.

The Mama Obama

I have to vent. Here's another political statement from me... even though I promised in the beginning to steer clear of this (I'm not running for President, what do I care if I go back on my word?).

It's about this comment made by Michelle Obama:

"For the first time in my adult lifetime, I am really proud of my country. And not just because Barack has done well, but because I think people are hungry for change. I have been desperate to see our country moving in that direction...”

Doesn't this just chafe your hide?

All Things British moment: Not to be mistaken for Chuff, which in England is a good thing. "I won tickets to a Norwich game, I am really chuffed about it!"

I am not chaffed that she said it, but that it is getting so much media coverage.

Holy cow people.

As a mom, how many times have you said, "My kids are really driving me crazy!"
Am I to take that to mean your children have never brought you any joy and that you are seriously close to literally being institutionalized?

How about the new mom that says, "We haven't slept in six weeks!"
Really? Why aren't you dead? Why haven't you been declared insane?
I think we understand and accept her statement to mean:
"I have only slept in increments since the baby was born".


Anybody who has followed Barack Obama's political career has probably figured out by now that he has an intelligent wife with a sarcastic sense of humor. While campaigning, she has to be aware of the things she says and how they look in print-- therefore, she's toned down her comments. I think it's sad.

How many blogs do you visit daily BECAUSE the writer is sarcastic? How many links in your side bar are to a blog that could be re-titled "Everything's Wonderful In Happy Happy Land"?

I would rather see a potential First Lady (or maybe even a potential president) with a dry or sarcastic sense of humor than one that tells me everything I want to hear. The latter frightens me. I'm afraid the true colors would come out after it was too late to change my vote.

Believe it or not, I am NOT on the Obama campaign wagon, but I am a Mom and I have said and done some really stupid things in my term as Mommy.

I am just really thankful the media hasn't covered any of them.

Weights and Measurements or Extra Baggage

Can you humor me for a moment please?
Grab your wallet, purse, handbag, coin purse-- whatever it is you carry daily to get you through the day when you're out and about.

Open it.

You're not opening it. You never even got out of your chair... come on....
Look over the amount of money you're carrying with you today.


Exchange all of those bills into coins.



Now you're ready to come to England.

One of the things an American has to get used to here, is the need to carry cash. Very few places will accept cheques-- and that's usually only local places. So, forget driving to Nottinghamshire with that slim, hardly-takes-up-any-space cheque book, because the cashier will look at you as if you were daft for even bringing it.
I have a debit and a credit card, but they're not always accepted. The U.K. has nearly completed the switch to credit cards with chips in them (mine don't have them), so even carrying a card is sometimes pointless.
So, one must carry cold hard cash.

Correction:
Cold, heavy cash.

In a country as old as England, you'd expect that the kinks would be worked out in most matters. But for some reason, no one has seemed to notice-- in all of these years after the end of Roman rule -- that the currency here is heavy. Weigh-your-right-shoulder-down-so-you-look-like-Quasimodo heavy.

There are SIX coins (1p, 2p, 5p, 10p, 20p and 50p) before you even get to a pound-- and that's a coin as well. Then there is a TWO-pound coin. So in total, there are EIGHT coins before you ever get to a paper bill, and that's a "fiver"or a five pound note.

Next is a ten pound note, and following that is the £20, £50, and the ever-elusive £100 (never had the need to carry one of those. If I were to drop it, there goes approximately $200.00 in one clumsy move-- kind of like Las Vegas).

To really throw a monkey into the cake, most shops prefer you to pay with £20 pound notes or less (and smaller shops request smaller currency).
So if you were traveling, and knew you'd be paying for lodging, meals, train fare and or cabs-- you would be carrying a suitcase of £10 notes and a rolling cart of £1 coins.


A couple of days ago, after carrying a sleeping baby to her room with all of the grace I could muster in a coat clanging against every door jamb, I decided I needed to get the money out of the pockets.

That pile of coins at the top of this post was in my jacket pockets. Even some U.S. coins hitched a ride.

Yes, I could've exchanged most of it for notes-- save your eyes trying to calculate it.

But I prefer to carry as little paper money as possible. You see, I still haven't gotten past the "monopoly money" stage. I have a little blue bill and a bigger orange bill and I'll hand them over to any pimply-faced teenager behind a counter without any hesitation.
"£10 for 3 sandwiches? Great, and here's a cute little blue note (£5) for you to add three tiny drinks on there too please".

$30.00.

THIRTY DOLLARS for a skimpy lunch for three kids?! No way, I'd walk 20 miles home and make them a peanut butter sandwich before I paid $30.00 for six slices of white bread with a little butter slathered on it (and a few shaved slices of meat) and a drink.

Never mind. It's fun, it's exciting. It's culture. And I need some of that.

I didn't need the hunched shoulder.












Here's a close up to give you an idea of the size and thickness of the coins here.

Dyln tagged me last week (I'm slow, I know-- you should see me return phone calls)

Here’s the rules:
1. Pick up the nearest book (of at least 123 pages).
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people.

The nearest book. Gee, I have so much to choose from here by the computer...NOT. I have a homeschooling book that is awaiting postage to go to Tara, The House at Riverton, that I enjoyed so much (and trying to decide who I love the most and will get it next-- unlike the movies I send to my son--flops or scary things) and The Reduced History of Britain (The story of the World's greatest little nation squeezed into 101 moments). I think the latter is the closest, so here we go:

The British public has tuned in each week in its millions and more people vote in reality television finals than in many elections. The democratisation of fame or just a way for desperate and untalented people to get famous by getting drunk on a sofa? You decide.

It's written about Big Brother. The show that monopolizes several stations here, 24-hours a day. I am not kidding. If you're a masochist, you can tune in to watch people snore. It's like the Truman Show, but so not funny. The greatest thing about this show is during the summer it gets me and the kids out of the house. All winter long I can watch every version of Pride and Prejudice, Sense and Sensibility (and BTW, the most recently aired 2008 BBC version is fantastic), and a new one, Lark Rise To Candleford. Last week I saw Anna Karenina and before that, Elizabeth. I can't be bothered by fresh air and exercise with so many good things on the telly!

All Things British Day!

I was just visiting Flea's blog, leaving comments for Bessie, when I realized that it's time for more views of England from an American in Norfolk.


I took a trip up through Scotland (the first summer we were here) to ride on the Hogwarts Express (right across the Glenfinnan viaduct you see in the movies), and there I got my first look at a Hairy Coo. Aren't they cute?
There are post cards available with a Hairy Coo standing next to a red phone Box,
and he should count himself fortunate to have that moment forever documented since for some strange reason, the U.K. has started replacing them with boring glass BT boxes (imagine an AT&T box but even less complimentary to this dreamy landscape). They sold them off for nothing, but now if you find one at an auction, you could pay close to £1000.00.

On that same trip, I also had an opportunity to try (and passed on it) a Haggis. Those of you with weak stomachs should scroll down now.
It's basically a sheep's organs minced with spices and boiled in the same creature's stomach. Mmmm, yummy.
Haggis and Blood Sausage from Portugal will fall far below Escargot on my list of things to eat, you know, when the world has ended.


You could skip the eating part and just participate in the Haggis Hunt. My kids did. It's alot like Snipe hunting in the states.

Forget what I said, put on your dancin' shoes!

All right ladies (and gent), if possible, get up of off your chair and dance along (you can dance while reading?)
I have told my husband that I'd be thinner if we danced more. I used to effortlessly travel between a size 5 and 7 and was a HUGE size 8 when I got married, but marriage came and the dancing ended. Now I can't get one thigh into a size 7. I'm ok with that, because for some odd reason, so is my husband. But what I will have to insist on is that I have stamina. I want to play in my 80s and dance in my 90s.

Still up moving?

Anyway, forget what I said about what I would be blogging-- there's still tomorrow to do that blog I've wanted to do since last week-- I went to my very first (and probably last) Hen Party. What a hoot, it was a real quack up! sooo lame, I know.

In the States, we have the semi-equivalent in bachelorette parties. I have attended a few of those, but the British people certainly have a way of celebrating.

Our first introduction to the way parties are thrown here was when A1 was invited to a birthday party that didn't start until 6 pm. He was 6-- a 6 p.m. party? The invitation said "6 p.m. WI Hall". I actually took the invitation in to the Head Teacher at his school and asked if he could help.
"Whats' a WI Hall, and where do I find it?" and, "There's not enough numbers for the phone to RSVP, how do I dial this?" Sweet man that he is, was happy A1 had already been invited to something and clued me in on where I would find it.

On the night of the party, I left our house a little grumpily. It had taken forever to pick out a gift for this little girl I knew NOTHING about and had to pay a fortune for (remember, we earn dollars and pay pounds-- so double. A $15.00 gift runs me $30.00).
Because you may have never traveled outside of the States before (yet), there are some things you may take for granted. You know that if your kid is invited to a Chucky Cheese party, you're not going to send your little sweetie in a white, ruffled dress. I had NO idea what my kid should be wearing here, and worse, we were out at night on our little country road.
As I pulled up to the village W.I. hall (the Women's Institute Hall, a gathering place kind of like a town hall that you can rent for functions), imagine my surprise to hear disco music blaring out the open doors and enough people coming in and out the doors to rival Walmart on Black Friday.
As we approached, I was thinking, "oh, no, my poor little shy A1! He's going to roll up like a potato bug". When we got inside, our eyes were assaulted by the colourful flashing lights, while bubbles shot endlessly from the bubble blower next to the DJ.
Yes, you heard me. There was a full-on party DJ, leading the kids onto the dance floor.
The room was framed by tables lined with sausage rolls, mini sandwiches, crisps, drinks, pastries, candies... cousin Dudley's heaven.
I was gobsmacked (your British term for the week). I asked the closest thing I could find to the hostess (a teenager--sister to the party girl), "Do you want the parents to stay, or do we go?" "oh, um... you can stay if you want, but you don't have to...um, unless you want to..." (teenagers are the same everywhere in the world, accent or not).
I looked down at my precious little wall-flower and asked him, "Honey, do you want me to stay with you?" as he was wondering away, hand in hand with a mate from school, barely able to force himself to look back at me long enough to say, "you can go".
I went home in shock and told my husband, "we've been doing this birthday party thing all wrong, and with 5 kids, we're in big trouble!"

So, when invited to this Hen party, for my friend who is nearly my age (thus the feeling I won't be invited to many more). I was anxious and scared all at the same time. What to wear?!!

The ladies here aren't conventional. You will see a forty-year old woman with purple hair as easily as a 20-year old. The blingy-er you can get, the more you blend. Women come to queue up at the school in 3-inch heels and clothes with fur or feathers. But the best part, and I hope to blog more on this, is the attitude of the senior citizens here. No walkers for these folks, they walk everywhere, go on hiking holidays and attend things like I went to last night.

Anyway, after an interesting pre-party male dancer (sorry, those pictures are for the Bride only) we had a three-course meal














and danced to a Madness tribute band (I'm giving you the mini-version)
until 2 am.

I didn't have a heart attack, so that was the bonus of the evening.

I did realize that I need to dance more, and if it means dancing to Disney around the house, so be it. I want to be the little 80-something year-old lady I saw boogying the night away with her husband-- the one who limped his way to the dance floor and then shook his groove thing like he was in his 30s.




Dance on people, let's live long enough and healthily enough to embarrass our children well into their middle ages!

A Tour of My Home

After my last entry, I thought you may be trying to imagine this place I live in, so I thought I'd include a picture or four. This is my kitchen I hang my herbs in. I also churn butter here while my husband kills pheasants for our evening stew. With four boys, I really don't need chairs. They might muffle the farting contests held regularly in my home (to my dismay).


This is my bed. Of course my husband has his own cot in his own room. The house is big enough to do that, you know. As you can see by the cradle, he doesn't always stay in his own side of the house.

And last, I don't know what all the whining about "free time" is about. I have never had to pay for a child minder and don't have the least trouble with my children.
But really. Here's a picture of our courtyard in a rare sun shining moment. The other pictures are from the Iceni Village nearby, taken last year sometime.