Some Mothers Do Ave Em

Love! (ugh-good god) What Is It Good For?

2011-11-15T14:26:00.000-06:00

Turns out my soul mate does read The Guardian after all. Unfortunately for me, he doesn’t appear to have received the same memo.

After an iffy start to the relationship, which led to a rocky middle (being dumped by text was a particularly thrilling highlight), then an unexpected re-connection...the whole thing has now tailed off into a sea of nothingness, like car brake lights disappearing into ominous fog.

The thing is, I think I love this guy.

I admit, love is a pretty dramatic word to use in relation to a man that I have only known for a matter of weeks. But how else to describe the feeling of my whole world suddenly making sense, when he’s in it?

Now I know I can hardly profess to be an expert on the whole love and relationships situation. I have been shut down for so long, it’s no wonder I feel blindsided, ill-equipped and confused. It’s both a relief to know I can feel this way and also a sodding pain in the arse. Will there ever come a point of time in my life when love doesn’t equate to pain, hurt and loss? Did I intuitively connect to this man because there was something innately telling me he would never feel the same?

Like rhetorical questions are any use in providing answers at this point in time...

So, what is it about this man?

All I know is this. He is the only man I have ever met where I haven’t wanted to change anything about him. Not a single thing. Although, to be fair, if he reciprocated these feelings, that would be quite nice.

That’s not to say he is perfect, because he is flawed just like everyone else. But for the first time ever, I kind of like the flaws. I can live with the flaws. They are part and parcel of a person that I like just the way he is. I also recognise many of the flaws in myself. Despite appearances, we are deeply similar. I get where he is coming from. His life makes complete sense to me.

I can over think it and analyse it to death, but ultimately I sense a fit that I didn’t even feel with my ex. I can *see* myself with this man. I’m not the sort of person who is sufficiently confident to trust her intuition on a regular basis, relying much more on intellectual logic, but intuition has employed a marching band in this instance, and is stamping about, cymbals crashing, screaming, “HE. IS. FOR. YOU!”.

He doesn’t feel the same.

If only we both lived several centuries ago. Unrequited love must have been so much easier in Medieval times. I would simply book an appointment with the local druid, spit in a cup (or provide a juice sample of a more personal nature originating from an alternative, dubious source) trade in my soul and walk away with a potent love drug to spike his unsweetened cappuccino sachet with. Easy.

Nowadays there is no equivalent devious solution that I can think of. He remains unconvinced of our compatibility and has taken a long run into the hills. Despite stating I am possibly the only woman he has shared so much in common with. God, it’s so fucking annoying. How I’d love to give him a big, fat slap (if only for the chance of kissing it better, obviously).

I don’t think it helps that he still considers himself to be in love with his ex-girlfriend. The one and only time he has ever been in love, according to him (although not according to at least one of his mates). This is a significant stumbling block on the path to true love, I agree.

He also has an issue with my perceived vanity, which feels slightly karma-esque, because the thing I abhorred the most about the previous guy I dated, Green Eyed Man, was his pre-occupation with achieving physical perfection. My God, his religious dedication to the gym. His obsession with nutrition and diet. His outrageously complex beauty regime, which took a minimum of 20 minutes night and day, involving all manner of lotions, scrubs and massage techniques straight from the salon, and which drove me around the blinkin’ bend. My regime looked pauper-esque in comparison (I know these aren’t real words, but they seem to be working for me). Scrape off my make-up and possibly (in truth: rarely...I know this is gross) brush my teeth. Done.

I really thought the whole thing was too shallow and superficial for words. It didn’t matter that GEM was kind, reliable, trustworthy, hardworking and loving. I found it hard to respect him when he cared way too much about looking pretty and was striving for a career in modelling, of all things. Maybe I would have been more forgiving if I’d been open to a relationship, we’d had more in common and he hadn’t been quite so...dull. But maybe not.

So to have my own vanity called into question, is a little galling.

Although, cards on the table, I will confess there is a nugget of truth in it. I do take care of my appearance and, as much as I strive not to, still care way too much about other people’s opinion. Quite an uncomfortable realisation to make - that there is a part of me at the ripe age of 44 which doesn’t feel quite good enough. That underneath it all I still feel I have something to prove, as though the real me just isn’t quite up to scratch.

No wonder he’s buggered off.

But I can’t help keeping my fingers crossed that he comes back. I didn’t imagine meeting a man that I could see my future so clearly with - and, right now, I am not willing to let that feeling go. Whatever happens, this whole saga HAS succeeded in refreshing my hope. I can and do feel love. And one day, I feel confident it will be returned.

Not Neurotic But A Potentially Perceptive Mum...Who Knew?

2011-10-18T15:50:00.000-05:00

It's been a roller coaster few days. Emotionally I have been all over the place. Confused. Fearful. Totally overwhelmed. Crying at the drop of a hat and resembling more a wet rag than a woman.

My concern for Captain Underpants has clouded my every waking moment - and most of my sleeping ones (not that there's been much of that). Friends have been eager to reassure me that Captain Underpants is a wonderful little boy, who is just under a hell of a lot of emotional strain. And it's true, that is undeniably the case.

But then again, so is his brother. Yet his coping skills - at even 2 years his junior - are far more honed. Now I know Johnny Drama is a whole different kettle of fish and should not be used as a benchmark where Captain Underpants is concerned. They are as different as chalk and cheese. But I am still - as their mother - beginning to appreciate that personality differences might not be the only explanation as to why one is struggling and the other isn't.

I happened to mention my concerns to the guy I work with and it turns out that he is a specialist social worker trained to work with children, many of whom have 'special needs'. (I still can't help but grit my teeth where that terminology is concerned...I know it's wrong, but it just holds such negative connatations for me.) After I described the situation in brief he very calmly confirmed that there are definite indicators, irrespective of our personal family situation - yet this is not to be perceived as a bad thing. We talked about it in much more depth and he advised me to go and talk to the school's SENCO (Special Educational Needs Coordinating Officer) to get their opinion.

I then talked to Mr eHarmony, as we hadn't touched base for a while. Being a woman with blabbermouth tendencies I mentioned to him the issues I was going through with my eldest - and he revealed that he had gone through similar circumstances with his eldest son several years before (his son is now 14). He had a wealth of information and contacts, should I need it, and would be more than happy to help in any way that he could.

Another couple of friends read my blog and reached out via email, revealing their own journeys along this path (which I hadn't been aware of). One of them suggested I look into Sensory Processing Disorder, a relatively new 'syndrome' aligned with autism/Aspergers, but not. I checked out a website online (www.sensory-processing-disorder.com) and, just for the sheer hell of it, had a little looksee at their all-encompassing checklist, making a note of traits that struck a chord. Once I had a page full of notes - over 30 characteristics (and this was without writing everything down that rung true for CU) - I stopped.

And just started to sob.

The picture through that particular looking glass was overwhelmingly clear. I felt terrified at what I was potentially getting us - and particularly him - into, but also the most incredible relief that I possibly wasn't going mad. My biggest fear is that I am being a dramatic, neurotic mother, dragging her poor innocent son into the great unknown, for no reason at all other than sheer desperation, and to detract from the almighty mess that is his family life. To have a sense that this isn't necessarily the case and that there is evidence to back up my concerns, was reassuring to say the least. Maybe not mad. That was a thought worth hanging on to.

Here is a small sampler of the things that rang true to me:

Incredibly sensitive, colicky baby with sleep issues and who couldn't be comforted by touch/being held
Never crawled. Walked very late (could be a premature indicator) and walked on his toes. Hated new sensations - walking on sand / grass / different textures
Talked late - and didn't have a tendency to babble.
Drooled excessively for first 3 years of life and still soaks his pillow/bed sheets every night. Sucks fingers / clothing as a comfort mechanism, but was never soothed by sucking a dummy/thumb as a baby
Overly sensitive to changes in routine, even now
Is often overwhelmed by group situations and will withdraw - even on a play date he has requested - to play quietly on his own in a corner
Completely freaks out about his toe nails being cut. We have recently turned a corner with his finger nails, but this is still something that needs to be negotiated way ahead of time for him to be comfortable with it and to not disintegrate into a nervous wreck.
Has an absolute panic attack if he is spun or is threatened to be held upside down
Can't stand loud noises - says it feels as if his ear drums are about to explode if he hears something unexpected. The very thought of attending firework night practically brings him out in hives.
When in an active social group he either stand on the sidelines and keeps with the adults, away from all the commotion, or he enters the fray with abandon and is far more excessive than his friends. He talks VERY loudly and will not stop. There is no volume control. He can easily become hyper, which is very out of character for such a sweet, passive boy.
He can't sit still at meal times and constantly moves in, out and around his chair.
He can't stand his hair being brushed - even with the softest bristles - and as for hair cuts...well, you can imagine.
Sits/stands inches away from the television and, given the option, would always dictate that the volume is at least 10,000 decibels or more.
When excited or overstimulated he will repetitively screech at the top of his voice, like a large bird being violently castrated.
Shakes and moves his hands rapidly and repeatedly in anticipation of something good happening
Moves from placid to aggressive in a split second - over reacting to the simplest of provocations, sometimes with violence (his current preference is to choke / attempt to throttle whoever is upsetting him - most typically his brother who has an annoyance factor of at least 1000%)
In comparison to his friends, has poorly developed gross and fine motor skills

There are other things that his teachers are picking up on, which are little red flags and which seem 'out of character'. And I guess this is the thing that is most confusing for me. Because most of the time, and in the right setting, you could not meet a more delightful, mature, polite, intelligent, caring little boy. He is ahead of the game academically and quite gifted in maths and science. He is far more empathetic and intuitive than his brother and deeply cares about the feelings of others. He is a total joy and I love him beyond measure.

But to ignore the fact that he is hurting and struggling - and that there are potential indicators which could help to explain why (not that I am attempting to diagnose him, I appreciate I am no expert) - will be doing him the greatest disservice.

All I want is for him to thrive.

All I want is for him to be happy.

End of story.

And I will do whatever it takes to make that happen. Ditto for Johnny Drama.

Of course, I have so many doubts about even venturing onto this path. Where on earth will this lead? Will it provide any answers, in terms of a diagnosis? What is more terrifying - getting a diagnosis or not getting a diagnosis? I am intimidated by my Ex a little and his reaction to the steps I am taking. I have treaded on eggshells so carefully over the past few years and I know I need to handle this situation sensitively to avoid a potential backlash. He's a great dad and just as concerned - but I get the feeling that this is an arena which is potentially easier for a mum to negotiate than an A-type, competitive dad (albeit with many sensitive traits himself).

I am particularly frightened of doing CU a huge disservice. From seeing things that aren't there, to over-compensating and creating a co-dependent relationship. I don't want to create a handy excuse for behaviour that is simply not acceptable (ie. throttling his brother, much as I am tempted to a lot of the time). I certainly don't want to make him feel any different to anyone else. He tries so desperately to fit in and be liked as it is. But most of all I don't want to constantly be on the back foot, reacting to situations after they have happened and feeling so fucking helpless in equipping him to handle situations in a way in that he understands.

I am also scared of impacting Johnny Drama. I don't want to replicate how I felt when I was younger - my sister appeared to be always heralded as much more 'special', 'delicate', 'gifted', 'one-of-a-kind'.

I also want to feel far more adept at handling similar 'negative' behaviour from both boys in different ways, suitable for both personalities.

But most of all, I am just plain scared. Scared at how ill-equipped I feel. Let's be honest, I can be an emotional basket case at the best of times. I am rarely a placid and calm human being. My own anxiety, loneliness, lack of confidence and emotional swings between buoyant happiness and abject sadness is not the most solid foundation for coping with this situation.

And above all, I feel guilty. Guilty that I have missed years of potentially obvious clues. Years of people who know me and my son well, trying to bring attention to areas that they have noticed and are concerned about.

With less than 24 hours to go before the big SENCO meeting this morning, I spoke with a woman who is one of the leading campaigners for autism today and who has knowledge and experience across the spectrum of neurological disorders. She couldn't have been more insightful and supportive and reassuring. She had a voice similar to a meditative CD, which instantly calmed me irrespective of the informed advice she was imparting. The fact that I have this woman in my corner, to go to for advice and support, is so incredulously fortuitous. She listened. She reassured. She articulated simple and straightforward advice, which made absolute sense. There are obviously no answers at this point, but she talked me through the process, gave me guidance and offered a wealth of support and people to talk to. God love her, how lucky am I?

And the meeting with the SENCO woman today was...you know what? I can't put it into words. It reassured me beyond measure that I am doing the right thing in moving this forward and checking out every avenue. None of my concerns were dismissed as immaterial. None of the evidence disregarded. Yet also - importantly - no assumptions immediately made.

We have a plan moving forward, with in-house assessments to start and specialist assessments to follow. Maybe there is no diagnosis as an end result, but I am convinced I am going to reach a deeper understanding of how to help my son more effectively than I am doing at this present moment.

And that is all that matters.

Anxiety...or Aspergers?

2011-10-13T16:37:00.000-05:00

I have always felt incredibly over-protective towards Captain Underpants.

But never more so than now.

My son is hurting. His courage is failing him. His ability to deal with life with ease and confidence is deserting him. He is distraught and lost and struggling with everyday situations. He over-reacts impulsively and without warning. His tummy hurts. His enthusiasm is waning. He is trying so hard to cope and to keep up with the ever-changing situation around him. It is all proving to be too much.

I feel utterly, utterly helpless.

At this moment in time, if I could wrap this boy in cotton wool, pull him into my lap, lock the door and never let him go...I would.

I just want to stop him hurting and it kills me that my efforts, right now, are verging on ineffectual. I am floundering almost as much as he is.

He loves the fact his dad is now living close by. He loves his father unconditionally and misses him enormously when he is not around. But he doesn't want to go and stay at his dad's temporary home. He is not sure he wants to go and stay at the new house, once they move in November. He wants one home, absolute routine, no to-ing and fro-ing. He is desperately trying to put on a brave face; he has always tried to conceal his deep un-ease with the situation. I can tell he doesn't want to upset me or his father, by saying the wrong thing. He loves us both and is highly attuned - even at 8 years old - to other people's feelings.

Not only that, but he is also struggling at school. Academically he is ahead of his years. Socially, he can find it hard to fit in. He is struggling to deal with a larger class size, of 30 children. There is more noise and it is generally less orderly. He seems to be finding the environment more stressful than his previous school. Not only that, but this year he has a mish-mosh of teachers. His main teacher is there from Monday to Wednesday lunchtime. Then he has another teacher for one day on a Thursday - and yet another for one day on a Friday. He likes them all but is finding it hard to develop a sense of confidence and trust with so many adults to get to know. He is getting less individual attention than at his private Chicago school, which appears to be making him feel lost and inconsequential.

A lack of stability at home. In conjuction with a lack of stability at school.

This child, who thrives on absolute structure and routine and adult interaction, is floundering in a sea of change and uncertainty. Will he adapt, as everyone says he will? Or will things go from bad to worse?

I just can't take the risk of waiting to find out, can I?

But it is also more than that.

There are aspects of his behaviour - the depth of his sensitivity - which lead me to believe it could be something more.

You know. The sort of something where people start to bring the word 'spectrum' into the mix.

The sort of diagnosis that both his father and I are terrified to consider - and have possibly been in complete denial about for many years.

I think his father is still in absolute denial. After a meeting with the school on Tuesday - where they expressed their concerns and we dismissed them with countless logical reasons - Ex turned to me outside and suggested that Captain Underpants is demonstrating this type of behaviour due to a lack of consistent disciplining on my part.

He cited the birthday weekends as an example - where I ignored mayhem and let Ex deal with the admonishing.

I was too busy attempting to stem a flood of tears to either defend myself or slap him. I have NEVER proclaimed myself to be the perfect mother. How convenient that these troubles with our adored son could potentially be attributed to the gaps in my parenting technique.

Anyway, that's immaterial. Nothing else matters except opening our eyes to the fact that we need to get some help - some professional help - before our diminutive son crumbles even further before our very eyes.

I spent the day talking to friends and colleagues who have experience with sensitive / anxious / autistic children. There are several indicators, that he has had since infancy but which have definitely become more pronounced in recent years, that fit within an autistic / Asperger's diagnosis. Maybe I am jumping several guns here. I can have a tendency to think 'worse case scenario' but I have reached a point where I want to leave no stone unturned.

I made an appointment next week with the school specialist, as one of my first ports of call. I have ordered book upon book from Amazon. I felt a bit calmer, once I began to consider the possibilities and take action in getting some outside help.

I was on my way home tonight, internally mocking myself a little for being such a neurotic mother, when I received a phone call from Captain Underpants.

He was in tears.

Not sobbing, angry or stub-your-toe tears. These were the saddest tears I have ever heard. Quiet and heartfelt. I sank onto a step outside my office and my own heart plummeted. I fought to stop myself crying in sympathy alongside him. He softly cried and cried, while saying that he didn't know why he was upset, why he was feeling the way that he did - he couldn't even articulate what it felt like - but he didn't want to feel this way any more. He wanted to stop this feeling and he wanted to come home to my house. He was crying out for help - and I had no idea what to say or do. I listened to him and talked to him gently and reassuringly for nearly half an hour. He calmed but didn't seem significantly happier. I talked to his dad, hearing the concern and emotion in his voice mirroring my own.

I am so terrified of failing him. I love him immeasurably and wish I could magic all his cares away. But I think we need to rely on a little more than just love at this stage.

My special, special, special boy.

I Think My Soulmate Might Possibly Read The Guardian...

2011-10-11T01:55:00.002-05:00

Now Ex and I are living in the same country and sharing the parenting once more, it seemed time to dust off my libido (shoved hastily into the 3rd drawer down on the left), tenderly cradle my bruised and battered heart...and enter the fray of Online Dating once more.

Oh, more fool me.

The first hurdle is setting up a profile. I guess there are worse ways to spend my time. But really, I can't think of many. It's right up there with writing a new CV...and I have been successfully putting that fun pastime onto the back burner for over 2 years now.

Oh to be able to skip this part of the process altogether. It's a shame it is pretty much essential. I did attempt to do without it (I sat and simply stared at the Guardian Soulmates website for quite a few days) but nothing much happened as a result. No winks. No emails. No totally fantastic, compatible man beating my door down and sweeping me into his arms, before carrying me off into the sunset...

Turns out guys on GS may have many weird and wonderful talents or characteristics. But telepathy isn't quite as common as you might expect. This was an unfortunate discovery, particularly where my writer's block was concerned.

I think the reason I hate sitting down to write a profile is due to the fact that my expectation of being able to write something out of the ordinary is quite high. But the reality is, I don't have a single innovative idea when approaching a piece orchestrated to capture the essence of 'me'. I sit and stare at those stupid empty boxes, waiting to contain 2,000 characters, and feel a fug of distinct antipathy.

Put down on paper, I sound much the same as every other woman featured. Which is very annoying - given the fact I like to harbour the illusion I am pretty bloody special, most of the time.

Whilst pootling on the edge of 'am I going to dip my toe into these muddy little waters, or what?' I did a little site research and was staggered by the ease with which most people were able to blow their own trumpet. It would appear that all the attractive, intelligent people in this country are - in fact - single, judging by the content of most of the profiles. I felt more intimidated than ever.

Finally I sat down and scraped an unimpressive profile together, then uploaded a few photos which vaguely resemble the real me, if you look at them from a distance with a squint. Then I ran from the computer at a sprint that Linford Christie would be proud of and waited for a reaction.

Sweet FA.

That's what happened.

Well, this is reassuring, I would think. Yet another lesson in 'well, if you were going to make the mistake of ever thinking too highly of yourself...then please, don't'. A week went by and every now and then I would furtively check into the site and see if my profile had been viewed. Honestly, I have seen the carcases of dead chicks, which have fallen out of nests into remote gutters, get more attention. It was depressing stuff.

I hadn't paid anything at this point and was considering aborting the whole exercise and simply hiring a sandwich board with "I have been single for so long I will pretty much consider dating anybody", then standing outside my local Sainsbury's handing out my phone number with the headline "VERY single (and just as desperate...) call me".

And then *PING*, I received my first email.

I opened the message with caution. It was funny. In fact, it was original and funny. So I read his profile - which was also incredibly witty. I was impressed (but also, let's be honest here, a little pissed off that he had succeeded where I had failed). There were two photos, which were so-so. Not necessarily my cup of tea, but he looked interesting all the same. And, most importantly, the profile was right up my street.

I replied and we bantered back and forth for a few days, before arranging to meet. I was curious but not particularly excited. The ongoing trials and tribulations of Captain Underpants were unnerving and distracting me. However, I thought a coffee with this guy would be a pleasant distraction and, after all, nothing ventured, nothing gained. I had at this point paid a subscription, so may as well attempt to get my money's worth by actually meeting up with at least one person of the opposite sex.

The next day I bump into a friend in the playground, who is also on Guardian Soulmates. She is slightly embarrassed and reveals she has just received the exact same (original and funny) email from the guy I am due to meet. Identical, word for word. Which kind of throws me a little. I am not surprised that he is still approaching other women. That's the whole point of the site, after all. But I didn't anticipate that his initial approach hadn't been specifically crafted just for me. He had said my profile was 'witty and delightful', after all. What a big, fat fibber. He quite possibly hadn't even read it.

After the initial shock, I thought it was quite ingenious, if a little lazy. It had been a really funny email - I could see it would have been a shame to have wasted such literary genius on just one woman alone. If I had managed to be so inspired, I would have been emailing men left, right and centre. I actually quite admired his tactic, I thought to myself ruefully.

My friend emailed the guy back and said something along the lines of, 'gee, thanks for the email, but you are due to meet up with a friend of mine shortly, so I think we'll just leave it here, shall we?'

A couple of days passed. I was supposed to be confirming our meet up plans, but, what with one thing and another, just hadn't got around to it

At which point he panicked and emailed:

My only thought was: I hope it's not Nicola!
Anyway, it looks like it was.
Shame, because you are definitely the main reason for me staying on here.
I think you are COMPLETELY gorgeous, and very funny.

I'd rather put dignity to one side, than miss a chance like this..

30 minute coffee?

I think that was an email worthy of absolution, don't you? I chucked to myself as I replied to put him out of his misery.

And as it turned out, the coffee meet up was great.

Me, My Ex...and His American Girlfriend

2011-10-09T03:17:00.000-05:00

So Ex did finally move over to the UK in September, much to many people's surprise.

Given our typical communication brilliance, I didn't have any insight into his actual plans other than an approximate arrival time. "Where's he going to live?" friends would enquire. No idea, I would tell them. I could see them look at me with the obvious 'well, haven't you just asked him?' question in their eyes. The next question would typically be "is She coming with him?" followed by, "Do you think they will get married?"

I knew the answer to the first question - yes, American Girlfriend was upping sticks and relocating to the UK. As for marriage - this wasn't something that I particularly wanted to dwell on in too much detail, although it did occur to me that actually things could be a lot worse than Ex marrying AG. At least I knew what I was dealing with, where she was concerned. I knew she was lovely to my boys. I knew she was very respectful to me and that we were able to spend time in each other's company without feeling compelled to claw each others eyes out. In the past two years she has allowed Ex and I to parent our children together and not to interfere - at least not where I was concerned - and I appreciated that to be a BIG deal.

I felt a little edgy about them both moving to the UK and - presumably - taking their relationship to the next level. But all in all, I knew it was a good thing for the boys.

However, as it happened, AG's visa failed to materialise and Ex arrived alone. Oh. I thought. Interesting.

September was crazy busy, with both boys birthdays being celebrated within 2 weeks of each other. Ex and I hosted parties and took the boys on a long awaited trip to Legoland. When in each others company we were stiff and a little awkward. But we started to text and email each other, sometimes late into the night. It would start off with sensible enquiries and updates, before morphing into teasing ribs and personal mockery. It felt like the beginning of a new friendship.

During one of these exchanges Ex dropped a text like a bombshell. 'With AG moving over in the next few weeks, I would like to talk to you about my plans moving forward...' I instantly felt a little bit sick. He's going to tell me they are getting married. Crap. Now this moment is here, how do I really feel about it? I knew I should write a breezy response, but couldn't bring myself to. I felt really grateful that he was keeping me in the loop and wanted to share information before I heard it from anyone else. Really grateful. But I still wasn't sure I was quite ready to hear it.

In the end a few days passed before I got a chance to respond and then I received another email:

I know its a difficult topic to address but I just realised we did not talk about that text I sent last week about me and AG.

The long and short of it is that in moving to the UK she is making a pretty significant commitment to me - and to the boys, in fact - and in return I want to make a commitment to her. I am definitely not talking here about marriage (I don't think that's right for the boys at all) but definitely some form of commitment and I wanted to let you know first.

This is probably the wrong way to talk about this, so am happy to talk face to face when I'm back. But I didn't want this to linger, I tried to broach it a couple of times but we kept getting interrupted.

This past weekend has shown me how committed you and I are to being a team around the boys, and the importance of our closeness and I never want that to change.

I hope me sharing this doesn't make it change.

My heart sank, but I felt bad that Ex had to reach out one more time. I took a breath and wrote a response before I could think too much about it:

I know - I kept meaning to refer to your text but what with it being a busy week...

Thanks for sharing. I really appreciate your openness and your communication. I know how tightlipped you can prefer to be - so this act of sharing means a lot.

As for marriage - you know, I don't think this would be such a bad thing for the boys in the near future, if it's on your mind. As long as you are happy they will be happy. And having at least one of their parents settled and in a steady, reliable situation is good for them. I won't deny it - I wish it was me providing them with that type of security, that base of 'family'. Oh well. My time will come. There is some poor bugger out there who will be blinded by my charms at some point, I'm sure ;-). (he's no doubt hiding under some huge distant rock right now...come out! Come out! Wherever you are...)

So thanks.

I'm happy for you. I'm happy for you both. I really like AG and think she is lovely with the boys.

I still struggle with the situation sometimes, as I'm sure you're aware. You know me - over emotional and terribly envious with a touch of insecurity. Not the most endearing combination of qualities. I'm working on it...

And yes - I love the fact that we are a team where the boys are concerned. I do value your support so much.

And then I shut down my phone and went to bed. It felt good to have been so honest. And when I received Ex's response the next day, I wish I had been honest a little bit sooner:

Oh Nicola, your writing is so raw, so open and so honest. Its so you.

Thank you so much. Your note and your support means so much.

PS no dating anyone who's crawled out from under a rock. Top of the heap for you.

Ex x

Within a matter of days, AG's visa had arrived and she was in the UK. The boys drew her a welcome card. I bought her the fantastic book "Rules, Britannia: An insider's guide to the UK" written by the amazing Expat Mum (does this make up for the previous shoddy post???) and wrote a brief message in it, along with my mobile number and the invitation to get together.

Which has resulted in AG and I planning to have dinner together next week. I am trying hard not to find an excuse - any excuse - to weasle out of it. I remember how hard it was to move to a new country and find my feet. Woman to woman - if I can make this easier for her, then I know that I should.

The Inexplicable Mindset of My 8 Year Old...

2011-10-08T01:42:00.000-05:00

The walk to school yesterday was pretty much like any other. The boys run ahead through the woods, only to instantly return and cling to my side like limpets when I bump into a friend and attempt to have a conversation.

What is that with kids? The telephone has the same effect. They can be playing quietly for hours...but if I dare to pick up the phone for any reason and attempt to call anyone - they are there, by my side, loud, insistent, irritating, irksome and pernicious.

I was trying not to raise my voice, I really was. I was trying to enjoy our morning walk, because they would be gone all weekend to stay with their dad and I didn't want them to start their weekend with the memory of me snipping and snapping at them every 2 metres (which is, unfortunately, how it can be some mornings...much to my chagrin).

We bump into other families on their way to school. A friend from Captain Underpant's class whizzes by on his bike. Captain Underpants walks alongside me, holding my hand. I look at him, in his new specs, as he looks back at me and smiles. This boy is a total joy, I think. I squeeze his hand in mine.

"Mum?"

"Yes, love?"

"Erm. Nothing..."

There is a big pause and CU starts to look a little uncomfortable. He has a look on his face that typically appears just before he is about to make a confessional admission. You know the sort of thing. Spilt drinks. Uneaten lunches. Getting told off at school. Losing his library book. Forgetting to hand in his school club money.

"What is it, sweetheart? You can tell me. It's okay." I look down at him and smile reassuringly.

He is not convinced. He can't quite meet my eyes and starts to shift his gaze around the path we are walking on. He looks embarrassed and just a little bit guilty.

Well, I am all ears now.

Now, I have to know what it is that is bugging him. What it is that he can't possibly tell me. I look at him a little more keenly. Oh yes, I think. He is itching to tell me really. Oh boy. This must be really bad. I search my brain for things that I might have forgotten, which concern him. PE kit? Nope. A request for loo rolls / cereal boxes / egg cartons that I have forgotten about? Nope. Something - anything - concerning his dad? Possibly. Worries about school? Could be.

I am very much aware that CU is not a happy bunny right now. He is struggling to adapt to the extent of change in his life - a new school year with teachers who are job sharing plus a new routine spending two nights a week with dad, freshly moved over from Chicago, plus me now working 3 days a week is not providing the platform of consistency that he prefers. There have been ongoing complaints of tummy aches. Tears before school. Tears before going to stay at dad's house. My heart aches to observe his anxieties, heightened by the fact that he is desperately trying not to say anything to upset either me or his father.

Now he wants to tell me something. Something big. Something that is troubling him. But he can't find the words and the last thing I want to do is to add to the pressure I know that he feels he is under.

Once this walk to school is over, I am not going to see him until Monday pick up. Light years away. This moment will have long passed by then. I don't want him to have to internalise and fret about anything else. He has enough on his plate as it is, my sensitive older child. I have no idea what to do - how to drag this information out of him so that he can just relax.

I stop walking and crouch down to his level.

"You really don't think you can tell me? I promise not to get upset or angry. I promise not to say anything at all, if that's what you want."

He shakes his head, glumly.

"Well, how about this then. If you fancy telling me later, you can take Daddy's phone and just call me, okay? And if you want to tell me in private, with nobody else listening, you can go into the bathroom and lock yourself in, so no-one else can hear what you are saying."

His face brightens.

"So no-one will hear me? And no-one will see me. Right mum?"

I nod.

He nods, solemnly and walks forward with a new spring in his step. "I will call and tell you later. On the phone. From the bathroom." He seems reassured. I am anything but reassured, however it appears that a weight has been lifted and he skips off in search of his brother.

After drop off, I head off to work troubled by our conversation. The day passes. I am conscious of the time and hope that CU will follow through and tell me what's on his mind. I dash out of the office early because I desperately need to get to the bank. I had my brand new purse stolen a week before and still hadn't received replacement bank cards. The bank's location is not convenient, the tube and streets are heaving and I am a sweaty mess by the time I get there. I dive into the branch with minutes to spare till closing time, completely flustered and stressed. As the clerk deals with my request, I dig into my bag for my phone, wanting to check the volume is at its highest.

No phone.

I can't find my phone.

I really can't find my phone! I am already sweating rather unattractively due to legging it across central London in the rush hour and unexpected 27 degrees heat. Now I am seriously sweating and experiencing the onset of a panic attack. Oh God, Oh God, Oh God! I can't find my phone!

As desperately as I search for it, the bloody thing fails to materialise. I dump the bag out onto the floor, rifling through it like a woman possessed.

"I can't find my phone!" I shriek at the other customers and the bank staff.

"I can't find my phone. Oh God, I've lost my fucking phone. I don't fucking believe it. I've lost my fucking phone....shit, shit, shit, shit, shit."

The cashier looks at me uncomfortably - I am guessing that customers having a nervous breakdown on her watch is not commonplace - and hands me my cash. I grab it without looking at her, embarrassed by my panic and the fact that I am now in tears.

First my purse. Now this. The grip on my sanity has always been a little bit tenuous. Now it appears the grip on my possessions is following suit.

I try to breath normally, go outside and empty out my bag for the second time. I need the phone. How else will CU call me? Normally it wouldn't be an issue. But today it is imperative that I am there to talk to him. He needs to know I am there when I say I will be. That despite all the flux in his life, my being there is a constant that he can depend. Oh for God's sake - where is my fucking phone?

I race back to the tube, barging through commuters and provoking many a disgruntled glance. I start to retrace my steps. Where could I have left it? I must find it. I absolutely must find it.

After 45 minutes of frantically chasing my tail from Holborn, to Baker Street, to Selfridges and back to Bond Street, I admit defeat and head back to the office. I start to think about the photos I have taken on my phone, which I haven't yet downloaded. I very rarely synch my phone, because I am a lazy arse and generally technically inept. Now I can't speak to my 8 year old AND I have lost the only photos I have from both the boys recent birthdays. What has happened to me? Why am I always lurching from one crisis to the next? I need to stop being so easily distracted, so away with the fairies.

I walk into my office, sweating so copiously that there is steam rising from my skin and my clothes. My colleague looks at me in surprise and I explain what's going on. I try to think clearly about what I need to do next. The important thing - above anything else - is that I speak to CU. My colleague dials my number and we both sit and listen to the phone ring and ring. I am pretty certain it is on silent. If someone has found it, maybe they just can't hear it ringing. I sit and breath for a minute to calm down, collect my thoughts. I mechanically empty out my bag again and sort through the debris that is its contents, while trying to remember Ex's phone number. I reach for the bag to shove everything back in it again - and there nestled at the bottom is the phone.

I stare at it in disbelief and start to laugh. The relief is overwhelming. My sense of stupidity overrides it. I am such a moron.

I quickly dial the number to speak to CU.

"Oh, hi mum!" He sounds chirpy and untroubled. I start to relax just a little. I prompt him to tell me what was on his mind that morning.

"Well, you know we saw X riding his bike in the woods this morning? And you remember you said that when I am older I can ride to school all by myself? After I have been on the cycling course? Well...me and X have talked about it and we are going to wait for each other and ride to school together, when we are older. But only when we are older. Not before you say so. And his mum says so. Okay, mum?"

After all that - and with everything else that is going on in his life - this is what was plaguing him? Really? I am utterly stunned into (almost) speechlessness.

"That's a great plan sweetheart - I like your thinking." I tell him. For once, I really don't have the words to say anything else.

I breath a huge sigh of relief and think...if I thought I understood my 8 year old, this just goes to prove that I really have no concept of what is going on in his head. At. All.

Reckless Behaviour

2011-08-21T13:54:00.001-05:00

So last night was interesting...in a stereotypical, cliche, cougar type way.

It's been an emotional couple of days, for a myriad of reasons. Chicago is starting to get to me. The walls are closing in. Too many bad memories pervade my thoughts. It is the scene of too much tragedy in my life and ultimately that energy finds me again and closes in.

It's hard not to miss my ex, when I am here, and the life we initially had together. It's still hard to believe that it all fell apart so spectacularly. It's also coming up to Mack's birthday. He would have been 9 this year. And if I think about how much I miss him and how much he continues to mean to me, the only option is to curl up and keen like the freshly bereaved. I love him and miss him in equal measure. I thought at the beginning that the intensity of these feelings would fade with time. I guess not.

I have also had a big bust up with a friend, which has tipped me over the emotional edge. This woman is one of my rocks. I love her. I never meant to upset her. She definitely meant to upset me, I think. At this moment in time I am not sure how to resolve this fight and if she even wants to. It's so unexpected and has catapulted me back in time to High School, when female relationships seemed so fraught and loaded with nuance, compared to my long-standing friendships of today. It makes me really sad.

So there I was yesterday, feeling sad and, yet again, like a bit of a tearful sop. Honestly, I have not been like this for a while! When it hits, it tends to hit hard and then bugger off again, which I suppose is a bit of a blessing. I went to dinner with girlfriends and - par for the course - just had an itch to get absolutely trollied. To let the smooth vodka in a multitude of martinis sooth all these cares away. My friends didn't share this desire, because they are grown-ups and don't feel the need to blot their life and feelings away as a 20 year old, like I do. I sat at the dinner table in a bit of a sulk, because yet again I was alone in my desire for a bit of a buzz. C'mon people! I wanted to implore them. At least one of you help me get this fucking party started!

I am distracted a little by a young man sitting next to me at the bar. He's nothing special in the looks department, although he reminds me a little of Chris Martin from Coldplay (who I have a bit of a thing for) and his body is to die for. I don't think it helped that I had been to the movies in the afternoon and spent 2 hours ogling Ryan Gosling with his top off. It was quite depressing to come to the realisation that I would have between Fat Chance and No Chance to have a romantic (oh, who are we kidding? sexual) encounter with a guy like that again in my life time. In fact, probably closer to No Chance, let's be honest here. Goddamn libido. My life will be that much simpler when the menopause hits and my sexual desire goes for a long lie down.

Anyway, young man is intrigued by my accent and we chat for a while. I am grateful for the attention, it has to be said. Thank you Universe, for this little distraction from my messy and complicated emotions. Thank you for this little boost to my ego, after wailing over my lost husband and dead baby for an hour or so this afternoon. It couldn't be better timed.

Ultimately, we part to go to our tables and I think no more about it. The next couple of hours are spent in a blur of talking, sushi and (in my case at least) martini consumption. The dinner comes to a close and everyone is happy to make their way home. Except me. I don't want to go home. I have nothing to go home to. And I am certainly not ready to stop drinking. My two martinis have definitely taken the edge off but have left me feeling a little bit reckless. A little bit destructive. I feel peeved and also embarrassed that I am the only one that feels this way. I know I am not in danger of my behaviour spiraling out of control, but I just want more of a buzz, some excitement, loud music, possibly dancing. I want to lose myself for just a couple of hours.

It's not very mature behaviour for a 44 year old, admittedly. I knew I should have had more of a misspent youth and got it all out of my system then. I resign myself to an early-ish night, thinking Sod It I Am Going Back To My Friend's To Drink All Her Grapefruit Vodka While She Is Sleeping - Until I Am Legless - You Just See If I Don't.

We walk out of the restaurant and, low and behold, who is the first person we bump into? Oh young man...your stroll to get cigarettes from the bar across the road couldn't have been better timed. I hadn't appreciated how tall he is, while at the bar. He's 6ft 6, making me - even in my heels which make me over 6ft tall - feel petite and diminutive. Oh dear. I can feel a bad decision coming on.

We chat for a couple of minutes. He asks us all to go for a drink. My friends demurely decline. I pause. He senses my temptation and within minutes my friends are in cabs and I am sitting in a bar across the road with a young man holding my hand. There are no prizes for guessing where he ultimately wants this to go, I think to myself wryly. Well, what was I expecting? A conversation around our favourite classical literature?

We kiss. Holy Mother of God, his lips are like nectar and he is a fabulously gentle and sexy kisser. There is a part of my brain saying not cool, this is so not cool and rolling its eyes in a reproving way. But mainly it is just screaming YIPPEEEE! It was so nice to just sit there, in the corner of a bar full of strangers and smooch with this relative stranger (I had at least got his name by this point, so maybe he now classified as an acquaintance, don't you think?) just for the sheer pleasure of it. My urge to get drunk dispelled and was replaced with an urgent desire to get laid.

But as reckless - or maybe just impulsive - as I felt I was being, I knew for sure that I wasn't going to have a one night stand. Been there. Done that. Only twice admittedly, but it's never left a good taste in my mouth afterward (I know what you're thinking, depraved reader...and No, it was not due to the old spit/swallow conundrum.)

So after 2 hours of wild snogging, first in the bar and then (with obvious glamour and sophistication) in a darkish alley, where the chemistry is established without any doubt whatsoever, I end the night (despite heartfelt pleas, which actually aren't that hard to resist). He takes my number, but I doubt I will hear from him again.

Which is a little irritating. I have another week to go and it would have been a very satisfying distraction. Just the chance to run my hands over his taut abs again, would be quite thrilling.

So I will dwell on this pleasant daydream, while sitting here smothering my lips in chapstick. A vain attempt to soothe the 2 inch circumference of skin which has been removed around my mouth. Ah, the detrimental side effects of a 2 hour snogging session. My lips are going to look like shit for at least 3 days.

But I have to say, it was worth it.

Unintentional Eavesdropping

2011-08-18T21:44:00.000-05:00

I press the phone closer to my ear.

In the background I can hear muffled chatter and lots of laughter. An American woman, requesting ever so politely to a waitress that none of her food comes within spitting distance of butter.

"Hello? Hello, are you still there? Hey big guy - talk to me!"

I press the phone even closer to my ear, straining to hear the sound of my son's voice, but he is too obviously engrossed in the happy family situation he is a part of, while on holiday with Ex and American Girlfriend.

I try to shut out the sound of her voice, intermingled in normal everyday conversation with his.

They sound really happy. I can almost hear the smiles in their distant voices, via this unusually clear mobile phone reception. I feel the bitter taste of envy rising from my stomach and the tears begin to smart behind my eyes.

Oh, not again.

For God sake, you big nelly...are you not over this already?

Just when I think I have a handle on this. On her. On him and her. And them (meaning, of course, the boys), I get challenged. I get a peek into their life together and Oh-My-God it always sounds so bloody picture perfect. So very balanced. Two loving adults. Two happy children. One small yappy type dog. What could be better?

It just still makes me sad that it isn't me that is able to provide this for them.

Finally, Johnny Drama returns his attention to the phone, whilst still clearly distracted. "Bye Dad! I mean Mum. I love you...bye."

The phone is duly passed to his big brother. I get to overhear yet more laughter at the dinner table. Oh joy. Lucky, lucky me. "Hey Mum. I went in a tow truck today! Bye."

That's it. That's my lot for today. I hang up the phone and try not to cry. Thank God they're happy. Thank God. Thank God. Thank God. It's all I want for them. But, fuck me, it hurts that they just sound SO happy. Surely a little bit of a grump, maybe a moan or two, possibly a few tears, wouldn't be too much to ask?

I miss them. It's been 10 days since I have seen them and, despite having a lovely time in Chicago with my friends, I am beginning to crave my boys. Life is beginning to feel distinctly off-kilter without them around.

It's been a fun summer. We have already been to visit friends in Stockholm and had a blast swimming in the Baltic (brrrrr) nearly every day. Seven kids, one dog, two cats and three parents (intent on having at least one alcohol free day, but never quite managing it. Can't imagine why.).

The boys are approaching their 6th and 8th birthdays and seem to have turned a maturity corner. They are becoming young men. Their company is delightful. I am head over heels in love with them right now.

And I guess it's a good thing that I am not the only one.

It's what I have always wanted for them - to be surrounded by love. To be a part of a really happy family.

Yay!

Right. Where's my drink? Let's make an attempt to drown these tears (and the sound of their combined laughter) in a litre of California's finest.

After all, looking on the bright side it's not as if a hang-over is going to matter...I'm not due to get woken up at 6am and be on 'summer fun' duty for another 4 days. Might as well get the vino opened and make the most of it.

The Doldrums

2011-07-07T15:16:00.000-05:00

I don't suppose, given the title, that I need to preface this post by stating the bleeding obvious: this week has been a little bit sh*t.

It's always the same after Ex departs. I try not to pre-empt the situation, but the correlation between Daddy leaving and the boys morphing into children that I barely recognise is beyond any form of reasonable doubt.

The week started with Captain Underpants breaking his glasses during playtime. The school called me. I had that heart-in-your-mouth moment, where I thought, "Oh God, please don't say that one of them is sick and needs to be picked up early?" No. Apparently there had been a playful kerfuffle and CU's glasses bore the brunt of it. I wasn't even slightly irritated, these things are to be expected with boys. Truth be told, I am surprised the glasses have lasted this long without being smashed to smithereens, given the amount of rough and tumble that goes on.

However, turns out it wasn't just larks that got a bit out of hand. The next day the teacher informed me, in the gravest of tones, that Captain Underpants, typically a cautious, less physical child, had initiated a fight with one of his friends. Lunged at him in anger. Snapped and retaliated violently when a boy teased him one too many times. I cannot begin to tell you just how unlike him this is. How out of character. His brother? Totally. But Captain Underpants? Instigating a fight? I was stunned into speechlessness, which, believe me, only happens on the rarest of occasions.

At the time I was on my way to pick the boys up from after school football club. I was a little pre-occupied, following my conversation with the teacher. The football coach, upon seeing me, pulled me to one side. Captain Underpants had been causing such a rukkus throughout class, apparently, that he won't be allowed to attend football club if that type of behaviour continues. Endless shouting. Constant loud fake burping into other children's faces. Repeatedly pulling his shirt up and his shorts down whenever a goal was scored. Totally blanking the Ref/football coach and carrying on regardless.

I was completely and utterly mortified. And my heart breaks for Captain Underpants, just a little.

Oh, this situation is so hard on him. On both of them.

When Daddy leaves both boys are bereft and sorrowful. All they want in life is for their mum and dad to be together. And if not together, then preferably on the same continent. Emotionally, they can't tell their arse from their elbow when they are seemingly wrenched from their Daddy. It's so hard to witness them acting out their emotional struggle with it - and harder still to know how to help them, apart from cutting them a bit more slack than usual and making sure they quickly get back into their regular routine.

I know that this belligerent, hyper, uncooperative behaviour will fade after a few days. We just have to weather the storm and soon enough things will be back on track. The over-excited, ADD traits will fade and my sweet, loving, generally sensible-ish boys will return.

But bloody hell, getting through those days is no fun at all. For any of us.

Thankfully, today was actually a turning point.

This morning I was to attend an Inspire Day! at school with Captain Underpants. Unfortunately, the only thing I felt possibly inspired about, upon waking, was another 8 hours of sleep. I seem to have given myself a fake variation of jet lag, by staying up until 2 or 3am while Ex was here and waking mid-morning.

My body has not adjusted well to this abnormal sleep pattern.

It expects me to be on the way to the land of nod by 10pm, or thereabouts - possibly 11pm if I am truly living life on the edge. Any variation to the norm is greeted with a distinct lack of humour I have discovered, much to my chagrin. I won't be repeating that again in a hurry, let me assure you. In my experience, jet lag is only mildly preferable to severe sea sickness, and that is hardly a condition described as a barrel of laughs, is it?

I turn up at school looking distinctly green around the gills and with all the enthusiasm of a teenager being cajoled into conversation about personal hygiene with a parent. We are tasked with being Inspired! to make a board game, revolving around the theme of Transport, with our children. Two hours later and all is back on the road to being well with the world, with Captain Underpants.

The activity reminds me - and not in a good way - that I rarely, if ever, spend 2 hours of quality one-on-one time with either of my children...and that doing so is so much fun. Captain Underpants and I are not the best of teammates, admittedly. I am slightly too rash and impatient, impetus for his liking. He is a little too considered and thoughtful, verging on a daydreamer, for mine. I would like to say that I allowed him to take the lead on, what is after all, his project. And I can say that. But it would be a giant big fib. Thankfully, Captain Underpants is, at the age of 7, still tolerant of his (slightly) overbearing mother, plus a tad lazy, which worked to our advantage today.

After school we hang out with a new set of friends. I have to be honest and say that the behaviour I witnessed, during that 2 hour time frame, resembled more your average moshe pit than a play date with 5 and 7 year olds. I find myself being catapulted into a parallel universe, inadvertently taking on a professional alter ego as a bullish referee for this unexpected vertically challenged cage fight.

It. Was. Madness.

You rarely witness such mayhem, this close at hand, involving just a trampoline, 3 laser guns and a light sabre. I am pretty confident this chaos would not have ensued had the 'players' involved been a group of girls labouring over a book of Barbie stickers. I have not seen this many tears, tantrums and hysterics since watching The Real Housewives of New Jersey (if you're a fan, you'll know exactly what I am talking about).

The only saving grace for this particular play date was that my sons, by and large, behaved immaculately. This time it was Captain Underpant's buddy's turn to be the out-of-control, truculent, abhorent little ~~shit~~ monster.

I felt for his mum.

As I heaved a big sigh of relief.

Phew. Not just me and my boys then.

Looks like we are over the worst of it. Until next time.

Just Call Me Imelda

2011-07-03T17:21:00.000-05:00

Good evening everyone. My name is Nicola. And I am an addict.

A shoe addict.

This addiction reached fairly ridiculous heights this week, when in a single day I bought 7 pairs of shoes. Most of which are highly impractical and aren't going to last more than 20 paces on the school run through the woods.

What was I thinking?

In all honesty, I don't think that the brain was completely engaged in any of the purchases, which happened rapidly in the space of approximately 75 minutes. I certainly wasn't thinking, "What I desperately need, more than anything else on this planet, is 7 new pairs of 3 inch heels...to accompany the mountain of neglected and rarely worn 3 inch heels that I have stuffed in special shoe storage bags, under my bed."

Could it be that I was a millipede in a past life? Does this explain the urge to own more shoes than I can possibly wear in this lifetime?

So I took it upon myself to photograph my new purchases - to illustrate quite clearly, to potential disbelievers, why these shoes were purchases of the Absolute Necessity variety. Then I thought...hey, there's an extension on that great idea! Why not photograph all the pairs of shoes that I have bought this year alone and OUT myself in spectacular fashion? Reveal myself to the world as the frivolous shoe spendthrift that I truly am.

That was not a particularly easy feat. First, there was the challenge of actually remembering, then finding all the shoes I have bought this year. Second, there were so many of them that it took me a while to recover from the shortness of breath and dizziness that set in. Once I'd had my little lie down, with a sweetened cup of tea and a couple of custard creams, I found I didn't actually have sufficient floor space in my bedroom to lay out all the shoes to photograph them. Unthwarted in my mission, I did manage to fit them all onto my king size bed.

28 pairs of shoes.

In 6 months.

And I love and am deeply attached to every single pair of them. No, really. Even the pair of black sequin Converse that haven't made it into the photograph (because I had quite simply forgotten all about them until mere seconds ago and have absolutely no recollection to their whereabouts).

In my (slightly insane and desperate) defence, I will stand tall and say very loudly 23 PAIRS OF THESE SHOES WERE ON SALE, YOUR HONOUR! In fact, many of them were half price...which means I have effectively only brought in the region of 17 pairs of shoes. Quite a sensible, justifiable number of new shoes in the space of 6 months, I am sure you will agree.

When I was photographing the shoes (it took a little time, with all the breaks to breathe into the brown paper bag) it did occur to me that, whilst the money spent might not have stretched to a 5* holiday in Mauritius...it could possibly have afforded me a 4 day yoga treat. In India. Where I could have meditated all day, every day on the answer to why I innately believe that the hole in my heart can be successfully filled with shoes. Ah well. I am guessing that is a question that will remain unanswered, for the time being at least.

As for the timing of the purchases, well that couldn't have been more awkward. Ex arrived in town last Wednesday and has commandeered my house till Monday. (Yes, I can see that there is probably some Cause and Effect relationship here - these recent years of therapy have not been a complete waste of time and money I can assure you.) I was therefore in a situation where I was still trying to smuggle the evidence of my purchases into the house, without his knowledge, yet again.

Why I couldn't just waltz brazenly in, swinging the bags containing multiple shoe boxes, I have no idea. I was tempted to parade my very own shoe fashion show during tea time, which surely would have garnered much appreciative applause, quickly followed by praise in my economic ability to 'save' myself £280 in shoes, in one day alone. But no. Instead I sneaked in while the house was empty and, quickly and quietly, shamefully hid all evidence.

It strikes me as a little odd that I am no longer married to the man, yet I am still participating in this little charade. Funny how some habits (particularly the bad ones) are hard to shake.

Anyway, before I delight you with photographic evidence of my truly superficial and slightly unhinged addiction, I will just say this about shoes:

Shoes are the easiest thing in the world to try on, because they do not require a changing room and the removal of several layers of clothes
When you try on shoes, you are rarely in danger of horrifying yourself with close up images of your own dimpled bottom and/or thighs in a 3-way mirror
If a shoe is too small, it doesn't provoke an emotional "God, I knew I shouldn't have eaten half the contents of the kid's treat tin!" reaction...you simply get the next size up
Similarly, if a shoe makes your foot look less than attractive your brain very rarely asks the question "Does my foot look fat in this?" It is purely an ugly bloody shoe and can be instantly cast aside

The Four Man Method - yet more dating disaster stories

2011-06-28T04:49:00.000-05:00

Dating. It’s not an activity I thought I would have to endure in my 40s, whilst in the midst of trying to raise the next generation of men myself.

I’m not proving to be very good at it.

I was always much better being a one man girl, so the modern approach of dating several prospects simultaneously seems a sure fire recipe for guaranteeing that you are about to get yourself a ‘reputatation’. And not one of being a pillar of the community.

If, like me, you become obsessed with the romantic activities of celebrity single mums, you might be fooled into thinking that bagging a new man following a relationship implosion is a piece of cake. I’m surprised I have any molars left and haven’t ground them into stubs, when being subjected to tabloid images of my celebrity peers, holding hands blissfully with their new beau's. Like it really is that simple.

Yes, I’m talking about you Halle. The front door had barely shut on Gabriel’s behind and there you were, gazing blissfully at Oliver Martinez. Not fair. Elizabeth Hurley, you’re no better, getting instantly bowled over by that hunky cricketer bloke. And don’t even get me started on Rachel Weiz, who found consolation in the arms of Daniel Craig no less, when her marriage fell apart. There are others. Many others. Including a plethora of Kates (Hudson, Price, Winslet) and the elfin Anna Friel.

So this is how I spend my days. Spitting toast at the source of the latest celebrity single mum’s love tryst in agitation (then grinding my molars into stubs with - let’s face it - raw envy). And my reaction is always the same....This is Not Real Life!

At least, it’s not my real life.

More’s the pity.

Not that there hasn’t been some small flurries of potential romantic activity in my life over the past few months.

Here’s a brief run down:

Mr eHarmony

The only man I met up with, following a knee jerk 3 month stint on eHarmony (the membership of which is now cancelled - FOREVER). Now, this is a guy who knows how to treat a lay-dee. He took me out to dinner, to the theatre and even to Ladies Day at Ascot. He was well travelled, well read, engaging, thoughtful and had a good sense of humour. On paper he ticked boxes, and lots of them. In real life, there was just no sexual chemistry (well on my part at least). I tried to muster up the enthusiasm for a good ol’ tongue thrashing snog, because God knows I could do with the practice, but even two powerful Mojitos and half a bottle of Chablis couldn’t get that party started.

We’re now just friends.

Italian Stallion

This tall sexy hunk has been swinging me around the dance floor for weeks, while I practice my Ceroc moves and try to out-Britney Ms Spears. I have to admit, I’m a little bit shameless when I am dancing. I don’t set out to be - but the right music can trigger an almost Pavlov response in my celibate pelvis, which starts wiggling and jiggling with blatant abandon. Most men regard me with abject fear in their eyes - but the Italian Stallion has no such fears. “I am tempted by you”, he tells me seductively, in his wildly attractive Italian accent on the dance floor, and then later, over pizza.

I was a little bit tempted, I’ll confess. I’m only human. These nether regions were never intended for a nunnery.

But I’m taking a pass. It’s only going to be a shag at the end of the day - and that’s just not what I am looking for. It’s not going to stop me dancing like a wanton freak with him on a Tuesday night tho...after all, I am only human.

Sexy Single Dad

It doesn’t seem very politically correct to be scouring the playground for potentially available men, but in the single mum world it’s best to leave no stone unturned. One of the dads in Johnny Drama’s class caught my eye. Nice looking, great smile. A little bit of a Harry Hill Lookee-likee. I have never seen such a perfectly spherical head. It was a happy day when I found out he was a single dad. A slightly less happy day when he dropped into conversation that he had a girlfriend. Drats.

Anyway, all is not lost. I now have a new buddy to coordinate the odd weekend play date with and that really is a bonus.

The Tall American

On my last night in Chicago in April I bumped into The Tall American and had that kind of swoony experience which doesn’t happen very often. That tantalising combination of instant attraction and sexual chemistry, accompanied by an intuitive sense that you’ve met before. I knew it was pointless and there could be no future in it, but I was smitten. After a 15 minute conversation and no snogging action whatsoever, I was hooked.

I then found out, following a succession of emails and even a couple of phone calls, TTA is dad to two children and that his wife was tragically killed last summer. How heartbreaking is that? It sent me into a bit of a tailspin and I couldn’t get him or his children out of my mind. To me, there really can be no worse case scenario. The thought of my own boys growing up, without me there screwing them up every step of the way, is unimaginable. I ached for her and for their children.

Not that I got to tell him that. It appears that TTA has unwittingly got trapped under something very heavy and I haven’t heard from him for weeks. There could be any number of reasons. I tell myself that it’s definitely better this way. Far less complicated all round. After all, I didn’t really want to even contemplate moving back to Chicago again, did I? No, I did not.

Such a lovely man. I hope he finds happiness again.

Such a shame I didn’t get at least a kiss out of him, all the same.

How Is It Nearly July Already?

2011-06-27T06:46:00.000-05:00

At last. A near perfect weekend. About bloody time. The previous 3 weekends have all involved tears (mine) in one form or another - from muffled sobs into a tea towel while curled up by the washing machine on a Saturday morning, to full out hysterical sobs at a child's birthday party, on a bright Sunday afternoon - so this has to be progress.

June, for some reason, has been a tough month.

Maybe it's simply down to the fact that tomorrow I will have been living in the UK for 6 months.

6 months?

Doesn't seem possible. Time is moving way too quickly and it's hard to see how my life is truly moving on, how I am actually making progress, now that I have nothing to complain about, finally being home.

The past four weeks have been pretty...well, challenging. I say that although, of course, good things are happening all around me. The boys are great. I am out and about, meeting new people, doing fun things. However, in spite of this, in spite of the fact that I am spending an abundance of energy getting myself out there, none of it appears to be tipping the balance on my 'general happiness and well being' meter.

At times I feel just as lost as I have ever been. Just as angry, exhausted, disappointed and scared. I aim barbed arrows of judgement at people all around me, but in truth it's myself that I am disgusted with. My inability to be a motivated, optimistic person 100% of the time. The fact that some days I am just so sad, for no reason at all. Why can I not just trust that it is all really okay?

Maybe I'm just not drinking enough alcohol.

Nah.

I'm pretty sure that I am.

Ex and AG were here for half term and, obviously, had a gay old time with the boys and various friends and family. God, that still rankles, though I so wish it didn't. When I think about it all rationally, the situation couldn't be much better for the boys. (Actually, not true...the situation would be much better if I was the one in the fantastic new relationship, while the gitbag who actually dessimated this family was alone and bereft...but I digress.) Friends who haven't been in this situation find it hard to understand. Surely I should have let it all go by now? After all, it's fairly amicable, isn't it? It all could be so much worse.

And I agree.

But this isn't about the rational, is it? How can you be rational about the person that you planned on loving and spending the rest of your life with, loving someone else? And that being okay? I struggle day to day with my little torn apart family, dealing with boys who cry heartbrokenly because they miss their dad. I did everything I could to keep this family together and it wasn't enough. I had no idea I was so disposable. That my replacement would not even be born until I was 13 years old and lived on the continent that I, stupidly, dragged us to over 10 years ago.

I want to find it in my heart to be the bigger person and just 'let it go'. I don't want to be petty and mean spirited, because I know I am no longer in love with my Ex. By allowing my vulnerability to override my common sense, I continue to disappoint and frustrate myself. I feel I am on the verge of losing friendships due to the fact that this situation still paralyses me, impacting me to physical nausea. Rationally it's all so unnecessary, but in truth it's how I still feel.

One day I am going to read this and not be able to equate with it at all. That's a comforting thought at least. How I long for that day - and may it just hurry up and get here.

I think the cat being released from quarantine marked the passage of time that I have been home for quite a while. Bert arrived home, looking none the worse for wear. For the first few days he seemed to have had a personality transplant following his ordeal, to the point where he even sought and tolerated the boys affections. Then he stopped eating cat food and started a new diet, consisting mainly of his own fur. Bald patches started appearing with alarming frequency. He succeeded in scratching most of the fur off his ears and his face. His tummy, instead of featuring silky black hair, became predominantly pink. The hair that remained attached to his skinny frame became greasy and lank. In my usual slack Alice fashion, I ignored it for the first week thinking I could simply stroke him back to health. When that failed I conceded defeat and rushed him to the vet.

Good God, I thought mercilessly, if you pop your clogs now after I paid out thousands from my divorce fund to get you through quarantine, I am going to be a teensy, weensy bit annoyed.

Turns out that it is anxiety. Must be contagious. This is the effect I have on animate objects, apparently. Even the cat is now stressed to the eyeballs after a few days of living with me.

No sooner did the cat move back in...then my sister moved out. She found a great place to live, just over a mile away. I have mixed feelings about the move. I miss having her here, even though I know it was the right time for both of us. The fact that we survived going from hardly seeing each other for 10 years, to living in each others pockets for the past 6 months, pretty much reflects the strength of our friendship.

It feels strange not to see her on a daily basis though. And my eating habits have gone completely down hill since she left. Funny how it was so easy to motivate myself to prepare a healthy meal each night, when there was someone else to cook for, who appreciated it so much. For the past week I have lazily forfeited preparing salad and protein for my alternative nutritious combo of kettle chips and Haagen Daaz. Not really food for the mind, is it? Or the thighs, come to think of it. Still. It does taste bloody delicious.

Anyway, rather than let this general malaise lead me down the inevitable rocky road of a permanent sugar coma, I have decided to try to face this period of my life head on and booked myself some therapy. Rather than keep this simple and also boost the local economy, I have begged the therapist I used to see in Chicago, to help me out via Skype. Sounds a little pretentious I know, but I just couldn't bare the thought of having to go through my recent history yet again. All the details of the dead baby, then the high risk pregnancies, premature births, infant surgeries, marital breakdown, separation, divorce and transatlantic move - and everything else in between. I don't have the time or inclination.

Luckily for me, my therapist said You Betcha! in that optimistic, American way and so now, at last, help is at hand. There's hope for me yet. Although apparently, tears are like burps and farts. Better out than in. And while I'm not aiming to cry me a river any time soon, I am mildly regretting not having shares in Kleenex at this point in time.

A Day With Friends

2011-06-25T15:28:00.000-05:00

When you're going through a rough patch, there's nothing better than spending time with friends, people that genuinely care.

And that's just what I did today. At Cybermummy.

Now I have the amazing Tattie Weasle to thank for passing along her ticket, as she had a conflicting family engagement. How fortuitous. How generous. I am very, very grateful. Apparently her boys thought I could do with the break from my own rambunctious monkeys - and I have no shame in readily admitting that it couldn't have been better timed.

The conference itself was meticulously planned. I wouldn't really class myself as a 'serious' blogger - I am not seeking marketing partnerships or revenue, would prefer to avoid sponsored posts, am not focused on increasing readership and have no intention of using the blog as a jump start to a business venture. Therefore the value of some of the workshop content was a little wasted on me.

But oh, what a day. What a productive and inspiring day.

It really brought home the reason why I continue to, somewhat haphazardly, blog. Because I have met some remarkable women. Women who have supported me over the past 2 years and provided such a wealth of advice and comfort. Women who have spurred me on, again and again and again. Women who have inspired me with stories from their own lives. Women who, if I had tripped over them on the high street, I wouldn't recognise from Adam.

Until today.

Today I got to meet these lovely ladies. I got to hang with these funky mamas. I don't have to regard myself as one of their cyber stalkers any longer. (Now I can be officially upgraded to Real Life Stalker...I have real names, phone numbers, can provide a pretty accurate police fotofit description if ever called upon. It's all pretty heady stuff, I can tell you.)

So a big THANK YOU to Home Office Mum, Expat Mum, Not Wrong Just Different, Potty Mummy, NotSupermum, MoreThanJustAMother, Jo Beaufoix, Family Affairs, London City Mum, Nixdminx, Muddling Along Mummy. I had a fantastic day - but the best part, by far, was getting to meet you all in person.

Another bonus? The four bags of swag that I unashamedly pilfered from every sponsors stand and workshop table. It's been quite a while since I have attended an event that featured an abundance of Free Stuff. I think I might have embarrassed myself a little with my enthusiasm to bag every freebie going, regardless of whether or not I could actually make use of it. It was like being a contestant on Supermarket Sweep. Quite what I am going to do with the 3 tubes of nipple cream, the sippy cup and feeding bottle I haven't quite figured out yet.

But oh boy, am I going to get brownie points tomorrow when the boys get their sticky little mitts on the soft toys, the dvds, note books, Crocs. Even the spaghetti will probably raise a cheer. (You can tell we don't get out much.)

So thank you gorgeous fellow bloggers. I count myself as very lucky to be one of your peers.

And thank you to the organisers of Cybermummy. A very worthwhile day - and a truly great day with friends.

The Art Of Positive Thinking

2011-05-31T12:08:00.000-05:00

Captain Underpants, "Mum...I think it's going to rain..."

Me, "C'mon on now, Captain Underpants...let's think positive shall we?"

(Short pause)

Captain Underpants, "Okay mum. I'm positive it's going to rain."

NHS: The Good, The Bad and The Ugly

2011-05-29T05:01:00.001-05:00

This morning my sister and I should be waking up to this:

Instead we are still ensconced in North London. Not fair. But at least it's not rainy. GOT to look for the glass half full, got to look for the glass half full...(said through fairly gritted teeth).

We were due to fly to Malta yesterday for a 4 day break. Ex and AG are over to stay with the boys for 5 days and I had planned to gallivant off to the island where I was born and lived until I was 3 years old. I don't have personal memories of living there, but watched so many cine films growing up and saw so many baby pics, that those 2D snapshots created perfect memories for me to adopt as my own. For some reason I have never got around to revisiting before, although always planned to. Now was perfect timing. Or so I thought.

The universe thought otherwise.

Goddamn you universe and your wicked, wicked ways.

Last week the household shared a communal cold. No big deal. Happens all the time in a generous, sharing household such as ours. None of us thought anything of it. Maybe it did cross my mind that diving might not be an option if my sinuses continued to play up, but I dismissed that thought as too negative to even contemplate. Of course I would be going diving. Positive thinking Nicola! This cold is going to clear in no time.

On Thursday I noticed my eyesight was a little blurry, as though I was trying to peer through a permanent fog. Odd and a little disconcerting. Friday morning I was woken by the boys at 5.15am and it was as though my eyeballs had been doused in acid. The pain made me want to physically scratch them both out with my fingernails. I could barely make out my own hand in front of my face. Needless to say, I panicked. Just a little.

Thank God for my sister - Florence Nightingale reincarnated in a pair of Gap pajamas. She called NHSDirect while I lay on my bed, crying in pain and fear. She coraled the boys into clothes, called a cab and we hotfooted our way to the nearest A&E department at the Whittington Hospital.

Nicola's Public Health Service Advice #1: If you are ever in need of emergency medical assistance DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT bother with the A&E department at the Whittington Hospital.

For a start, the place was deserted except for a couple of security guards having a cup of tea in a side office and a homeless man curled up asleep/comatose on 3 chairs in one corner. I was in full panic mode at this point. The pain was excruciating and I was terrified I was losing my sight. My sister was desperately trying to source some help, while I moaned and sobbed in a heap on a chair, but nobody appeared. The boys were leaping around the waiting room as though it was their own personal race course/play centre, which didn't help to create the aura of calm, medical professional efficiency we were seeking.

We were there for nearly 30 minutes before a nurse deigned to turn up. Thirty minutes of me carrying on like a woman semi-possessed and my sister banging on glass partitions and striding about corridors screetching "What is it going to take to get some bloody emergency help around here??? For God sake, my sister is in agony and needs someone to help her NOW!".

The nurse, when she arrived, was worse than useless. Hardly spoke any English. Led me, blindly, to a room down the corridor and then left me there, alone and unable to see a bloody thing, for another 15 minutes. She returned with a saline drip to rinse out my eyes, which became a farcical exercise. She disappeared again. After another 10 minutes I stumbled down the corridor, practically on my hands and knees, to find my sister and the boys. "Use the iPhone - let's find a specialist or something and get out of here. Find someone that can actually help me." I begged her. Moorfields Eye Hospital. Of course! And they had an A&E department. Perfect. We told the nurse sitting at another reception desk around the corner that we were leaving to try to find specialist help and she barely registered our existence. "Whatever", was her only response. Her abundant care and concern was reflected by the casual and dismissive manner in which she turned the page of her Grazia magazine.

I was past the point of despair at this point and could scarcely believe that this had been our experience. I was desperate to get some help, having never been in this much pain before and, in typical Nicola Drama Queen fashion, was truly terrified that my eyesight was going to be permanently damaged. I stood on Archway Road with the sensation that my eyes were trying to burn their way out of my skull, while my sister tried to hail a cab to no avail. We staggered to the Tube, while my sister did her best to both guide me and keep both boys under control. At this point it is rush hour. Hundreds of people jostle past us, although once on the train a very kind man leads me into his seat and I pull Captain Underpants onto my lap and bury my head into the back of his sweatshirt. God knows what all the commuters thought of me, moaning and crying. I must have looked quite deranged. I didn't care. I felt deranged. I just wanted to get some help to make the pain go away and couldn't believe we were having to go to such lengths to get it.

We finally stagger into Moorfields Eye Hospital and our experience is instantly transformed into one of infinite medical care and efficiency. I am seen within seconds of a walking through the door, even though the waiting room is full to the brim at 8am in the morning. Anaesthetic eye drops are administered immediately. The relief from the constant pain is indescribable. I could snog the nurse in gratitude. She is an angel. Within another few minutes my eyes are assessed for potential chemical damage, which is negative. I am assessed by three different nurses, who are calm and incredibly sympathetic, yet reassuring. A very kind friend, with two boys of her own, offers to look after the boys (who, at this point, are leapfrogging the waiting room chairs then running sprint relays up and down the hospital hallway, blatantly disobeying repeated orders from my sister to behave in anything resembling a calm and orderly manner). They depart and I wait to see the consultant, still half convinced that my eyesight (or lack of it) is damaged beyond repair.

It's not. It's all going to be fine. I had a severe viral infection which spread from my sinuses to my eyes. I have various lotions, potions and eyedrops to lubricate my eyes for the next 4-8 weeks, which is how long it is going to take the infection to heal. 48 hours later and my eyes feel relatively fine. Certainly fine enough to be sitting on a sun lounger or mooching around historic relics on a Meditarranean get-away. *sigh* The timing of my most recent of medical escapades was poor, to say the least.

But not as poor as my experience at the Whittington Hospital. Which pains me a little, because I have always been a great defender of the NHS.

When I lived in Birmingham for 6 months, in 2006, I received excellent care from my local doctors surgery. It was beyond anything that I had experienced in Chicago, from the time and attention I was given to the knowledge and care I benefited from. In addition, Captain Underpants has a mild blood clotting condition called Von Willebrand Type 1. This was diagnosed in Chicago, however the specialist in Birmingham was the first to insist that the whole family was tested and Captain Underpants was added to a national database, to ensure his medical condition is on the record in the whole of the UK. Yet again, the level of care and efficiency was impressive and beyond that which we received in the US.

When I returned to the UK in December I registered with the local practice and passed on the medical notes concerning my Melanoma diagnosis and treatment. I was referred to a specialist dermatalogist at the Whittington Hospital and an appointment was set up within 2 weeks. The consultant I saw was amazing. My case was going to be referred to two other consultants in the hospital, including an oncologist, and I would be seen and assessed every 3 months for a minimum of two years to ensure I remained cancer free. Yet again, this surpassed the medical care and treatment that I had paid through the nose for in Chicago. When the consultant was closely scanning my body for other suspicious mutant beauty spots, she discovered a lump in my groin, which I was pretty certain had been there for a year or so and, as it was painless, I had thought nothing of it. I was referred for an ultrasound scan.

I went for the scan within a matter of weeks and yet again, was impressed with the diligence and expertise of the radiologist I encountered. He performed a multitude of scans, then took the time to talk me through his findings, reassuring me that he found nothing out of the ordinary.

Overall my experience has been that the level of care available in this country is definitely on a par - if not exceeding - that which I enjoyed in the US. Even given the dismissive - verging on negligent - nature of medical assistance I received at the Whittington's A&E department, I remain a huge fan of the NHS.

Although the gaps in the system are a little more apparent through my rose tinted spectacles (...the contact lenses are unfortunately out of commission for at least the next 2-4 weeks).

A Better Quality of Life? Not Necessarily...

2011-05-26T08:53:00.000-05:00

One of the things most British people assume is that you can enjoy a much higher standard of living in the US.

Most Americans also typically take this for granted. I have had total strangers in Chicago guilelessly tell me, "Wow, from England? I bet you are really enjoying a much better life over here, aren't you?" One person even had the gall to ask, "Tell me, did you have showers where you came from?" (I kid you not, I was actually asked that on one occasion - the person in question then went on to tell me they had a friend in England who only bathed once a week, so they assumed this applied to everyone due to the water shortages in the UK. Far be it from me to tell this person that they obviously had very dubious, pikey friends and were slightly misinformed about a) the British water reserves and b) the hygiene equipment/habits of the entire nation.)

I am not about to launch into a USA bashing tirade here, but I have to tell you that, in my experience, a lot of this superior standard of living nonsense is just that. It is pure myth and conjecture. I think it is compounded by the fact that many Americans are far more patriotic than we are and are led to believe that things are, in general, bigger and better in the US than anywhere else in the world - and many Brits love any excuse to diss their own country and believe the grass to be greener in other countries, but particularly America.

Now I know I lived in an American city, rather than a suburb, which can be more expensive overall. My rent, for example, to live in a 3 bedroom apartment in a nice part of Chicago is the same as the rent that I pay to live in a 3 bedroom house in a salubrious part of North London. However, my utility bills in Chicago were far higher. I typically paid $300 per month for gas and electricity (which is equivalent to £200 in the UK, roughly). This would be higher if it was an extremely cold winter (it costs a bomb to keep a house warm when external temperatures are constantly below freezing for months at a time) and/or a very hot summer, when air conditioning was essential. It wasn't unusual in harsh winters to receive at least one monthly gas bill that was as high as $400 or more. And this was for an apartment. Having this information to hand was a foolproof way to shut my dad up every time he whinged about his heating bill (which even for a 5 bed detached house in the UK was a fraction of the cost). My combined utility bill in the UK is approximately £100 per month, which I know isn't cheap but still, for me it represents a significant saving.

My mobile phone costs were typically $150 a month, which was partially due to a small proportion of texts and calls going to and from the UK. However in comparison I have been able to get a plan in the UK which gives me 3,000 minutes of talk time specifically to/from the US for an additional fee of £10 a month, with unlimited texts. As a result my mobile bill is less than half that I paid in the States, with far more International communication.

I also paid a huge premium for my cable TV, mainly because I became addicted to the quality programmes being shown on HBO and SHOwtime in particular, who aired Nurse Jackie, The Big C, Entourage, Episodes, The Wire, Weeds and United States of Tara to name but a few. I have no need to pay this premium in the UK because all of the aforementioned shows are aired on non-subscription channels and therefore don't cost me a penny (apart from the licence fee of course - but again, peanuts compared to what I was paying - my cable TV and broadband bill would average out at $175 a month, here I pay £50 a month which is equivalent to $80).

When my ex and I separated and I started to research life as a divorced single mum in the States, I was horrified to learn how my finances were going to be penalised if I stayed in Chicago.

Ex and I mediated a fair maintenance/child support sum. If I had stayed living in Chicago I would have been expected to pay taxes on that income. My ex, however, would have received a tax exemption. This would have increased his net income and decreased mine, by approximately 20%. In the UK, however, the maintenance I receive is completely tax free. Not only that but I also receive Child Benefit (although who knows for how much longer) plus Child Tax Credit from the government. So the UK is not taking any of my income away in taxes...but instead giving me more money for free. Bizarre.

In addition, both myself and the boys also qualify for NHS medical and dental treatment in the UK. This is HUGE. In Chicago, once divorced I would have had to pay medical insurance for my own coverage, which would have cost hundreds of dollars a month. This would not have entitled me to free medical care, however. I would still have had to pay between $20-$60 each time I visited a doctor (known as a co-pay) and then a percentage of the total medical bill itself. To give you an example, when I was diagnosed with melanoma I was still officially married and was therefore still eligible to use my husband's insurance. The total cost of my treatment over 6 months was $10,000 - and I was responsible for paying 10% of that cost, $1,000. In addition I also paid an additional $200 in co-pays each time I attended a consultative/surgery appointment. I really struggled to pay that $1,200 and am just relieved that I didn't need further treatment, which would have pushed my costs even higher. In the UK my follow up costs and any subsequent treatments will not incur any expenses, apart from bus fare, for which I am incredibly grateful.

There are so many more examples. Having a baby in America, for example, is another very expensive exercise. I don't know how most people afford to do it. A 'normal' pregnancy and birth typically costs $4,000 in ob/gyn fees, of which you are liable to pay at least 10%. I wasn't fortunate to have normal pregnancies or births and our medical costs were a lot, lot higher. Thankfully our medical insurance capped our out-of-pocket payments to $2,500 per family member a year. Which is just as well, because in the space of 12 months Captain Underpants and I wracked up a total of nearly $300,000 in medical costs. Paying the $5,000 that year was challenging. Paying $30,000 would have been catastrophic. As you can imagine, as well as stressing over the pregnancy and then our newborn baby's health, it was hard not to stress over all the bills we were incurring. Costs that simply would not have been demanded of us if we had been living in the UK.

There was also no such thing as a free weekly mother and baby clinic and in my area all the mother/infant activities were very expensive. Baby massage / Gymboree / sing and sign / baby swim typically cost between $18-$25 per session. It just wasn't affordable to participate and I ended up spending far too much time at home, alone with my baby, feeling absolutely miserable. It was winter in Chicago - going for a walk with the buggy wasn't really an option. I struggled to meet other new mums and became very isolated. Friends back in the UK were enjoying social events with their newborns for a lot, lot less. I was envious of how easy it seemed in comparison.

Once the boys were older it was depressing to realise that there were no subsidies for nursery care. Both boys went to a Montessori nursery 3 days a week, while I was working, which cost $1,600 a month (aka pretty much my net income). Once school started there was the obligatory extra-curricular activities and then summer camp to factor in. I did keep the boys out of summer camp one year. This turned out to be a Bad Decision, because I hadn't accounted for the fact that every single one of their friends were attending camp, so in effect they had no-one to play with. Except me. Joy. I saved myself approximately $800 a week that summer in camp fees (the summer holiday was 9 weeks long)...but would rather go into serious debt than repeat that exercise a second time.

I could go on and on with other examples relating to my particular circumstances of life in the US vs. the UK. And these are the financial examples only. Factor in personal examples - being able to access your family and friend support network for example - and the standard of living argument, for me, starts to flounder even more.

That's not to say that living in America doesn't have its plus points and advantages. It does. I am very grateful that I had the experience of living there and wouldn't change that for anything. But if we are comparing apples to apples, and you are asking me my opinion based solely on my experience, then it's not necessarily a superior quality of life after all.

I Wouldn't Swap Our School Run With Anyone...

2011-05-25T12:49:00.000-05:00

Petit Menagerie

2011-05-24T12:37:00.000-05:00

The boys are a chip off the old block where animals are concerned. If they had their way we would live in a slightly smaller version of Whipsnade Zoo.

Johnny Drama is particularly intent on having a pet(s) that he can call his own.

So last week, in an act of apparent desperation when his pleas were falling on deaf ears, he adopted a dragon fly.

A dead dragon fly.

Which he has called Colin.

Colin 'lives' in a Tupperware container next to JD's bed. Colin is a huge fan of the bedtime story (apparently). In my view, Colin is the only fan of the bedtime story, given that he is the only participant not interrupting every 2 seconds.

However. Colin is lonely.

He desperately needs a companion. A friend that he can play (dead?) with. More specifically he needs to be best friends with a bee.

A dead bee of course.

Which will be called Phillip.

The bee must have died of natural causes (unlike Colin, who I think was inadvertently stepped on - but please don't say anything in JD's presence, because talk of his murder will not be tolerated in this house without the accompaniment of loud wailing and the beating of chests).

Luckily for us I think we have a bee hive in the depths of the run down shed in the garden. Why they have decided to set up home in the only garden without a single petal/flower/plant is a little bewildering.

Obviously not the smartest of bees.

Here's hoping one of them commits hari kari on the patio someday soon.

Purely for Colin's sake, obviously.

Sometimes I Can't See the Woods for the Trees

2011-05-23T04:34:00.000-05:00

I feel as if I have reached a pinnacle in this single parenting experience where it surely can't get any harder than this. Please dear Universe, don't prove me wrong. It's just too hard. Please don't make it any harder. It's tough enough to get through some of the days as it is.

Yesterday was one of those days. I would prefer not to have a repetition of one of those days for a while. A day where I just felt so tired, so drained, so lonely, so lacking in optimism and hope and gratitude that the thought of enduring another day like it just couldn't be borne.

Single parenting is a tough road to take. I had no real idea until I ventured down it. It is not a path I would ever recommend unless in the most extreme of circumstances. I am not a village. I am doing most of this alone and I am finding it really bloody hard. And I look at my performance with the boys (or the sheer lack of it at times) and I feel as if I am doing them the greatest injustice. They deserve so much better. They deserve the mum that I am in my head - the mum that I fully intend to be when I am not with them, but which doesn't bear much relation to the mum that I actually am in their presence.

I don't want to be a single parent any more. I really don't. I am done. I want this job to be shared....but more than that, I want to share this job with someone. I want another adult in this family to love, to balance the equilibrium a little. Not to share the workload with, but purely to share the experience with. Oh My God, the potential luxury of having someone to hold and be held. Someone to care for and to be cared for in return. This most simplest and human of situations now seems like a panacea to me. I can't imagine my current state of being, this terminal loneliness, is ever going to change. Is it possible that I am going to be single-handedly raising these children, forever?

I went through the motions yesterday, took the boys out, coordinated meeting up with other parents so the boys could run off some steam with friends, made cheery conversation.

I felt numb, as if I was dying inside.

I couldn't muster up a single molecule of joy as I watched my beautiful children gambol about, shrieking and laughing and karate chopping each other.

I was hollow. Empty. Devoid of any form of emotion except for the never-ending longing to cry and to never stop.

I got through the day, put the boys to bed early, then read them an extra long story as a penance for being on the outside looking in all day. They deserve better. They deserve so much better. And so, for the love of God, do I.

I watched Long Lost Family, a weekly excuse to shed the tears I am harbouring inside and, instead of feeling better, lighter, feel even more depleted. How is this possible? When you are running on empty - how is it possible to be even more empty? I berated myself internally for feeling this way. I have so much to be incredibly, ecstatically grateful for! I am such a lucky, lucky woman! Jesus Christ, to be this miserable when I have so much love in my life - when I have the privilege of raising these wonderful children in relative luxury, compared to many parts of the world, is so incredibly self-centred and indulgent and, quite frankly, disgusting. My feelings of self pity and loneliness disgust me. Which obviously cheers me up no bloody end.

I go to bed early and stand stroking the boys gently on their backs as they sleep, huge sobs wracking my body. My eyes smart with the saltiness of my tears. I feel too exhausted to sleep, the thought of having to face another day fills me with a sense of foreboding. I can't do this for another second, another minute, another hour, another day.

I wake this morning and the cloud has lifted. I hear the boys chatting to each other downstairs, being kind to one another, playing well together and I smile. I feel rested. I feel capable. It will all be okay. This too will pass.

Lost in Transition

2011-05-18T16:03:00.000-05:00

Now this is more like it. Grey skies. Nondescript weather. For a good few weeks there I thought I had moved home to the wrong country. Most disconcerting. Roll on June and the rain, that's what I say. You can't beat the first month of summer being completely rained out, can you...? After all, I have just purchased some new patio furniture, so the change in the weather couldn't be more perfectly orchestrated.

For the most part I am loving being back in the UK and have transitioned easily, even after 10 years of absence. I chose to move to an area that is relatively new to me - I have never lived in North London before but I fancied a fresh start and, truth be told, I do love the challenge of starting over where everything is new and just waiting to be discovered. I have one dear friend in the neighborhood and my sister is still staying in the spare bedroom (God bless her, she is being a total lifeline even though her prediction of us living together - which she predicted here - is accurate in every way).

I am more than a little infatuated with the area. Seeing London again and its surrounding area, with fresh eyes, sometimes stuns me to tears. The greenery is so vivid. Nearly every building seems to be imbued with heritage and ancestry. There is an energy and verve about it - like a vital organ - which invigorates me. And the hills! Oh, don't get me started on the hills! I have spent 10 years in reconfigured prairie land without a natural hill within hundreds of miles. The fact that I can now walk down my local high street and peer down avenues of Edwardian houses, which overlook the whole of London, takes my breath away. I am constantly stopping the boys in their tracks and forcing them to 'enjoy the view' and simply soak up the natural beauty of our surroundings. I know, I know. I'm on the outskirts of London and I am raving about the beauty of the landscape. Obviously, the sun over the past few weeks has gone to my head a little.

Other things I am loving about being back in the UK? Aside from the pretty money? I am still a little obsessed with Sainsbury's, Tesco's and the M&S food hall. I can get lost, browsing the aisles for hours. Every single time, without fail, I am suckered into the 2for1 special offers or 3 for £10 and buy enough food to feed half the street. Oh, the damage I could do if I owned an American sized fridge...best not to think about it.

I have been ~~freaked~~ surprised at how genuinely friendly people are and the overall informality and pleasantness of customer service. We hardly have the reputation of being leaders in this arena...however, given my comparative experience, I would beg to differ. I have had quite the chin wag with representatives from Thames Water, British Gas, Virgin Media and even the local Council Tax people, to name but a few. And don't even get me started on the cashiers in my local Post Office. Never once did I feel they were talking from a well-worn script. In fact, everyone has bent over backwards to be helpful, understanding and personable. I think this does reflect the fact that the Brits, in general, do love a good chat and for the most part are down to earth (verging on fucking hysterical, but again, this is just my humble opinion).

It has taken me a little while to adjust to the fashion sense. I had always been a bit of (okay, a lot of) a snob about the superiority of British fashion while in America. And then I arrived home to find everyone is dressed so incredibly casually - skinny jeans, canvas converse all star trainers for heaven's sake, army green parka jackets. Where is the glamour people? The effortless flair for accessorising that I have been spouting on about for years while over the pond? I feel out of place in this excessively urban clothing landscape. I'm not quite scruffy enough to be cool. I am, despite not even owning a twin set, feeling distinctly middle aged. I would usually feel quite gleeful about any excuse to buy a whole new wardrobe of clothes...but been there, done that where the grunge look is concerned. Never thought I would say this Chicago...but really, you are quite a natty dressed little town in comparison so please forgive my aspersions to the contrary over the past few years. I am beginning to think they may have been a tad misguided.

The one thing that has taken me back about being back in this country, I have to be honest, is the whinging. If there is a situation to view through a glass half empty, most Brits seem quite happy to do so. I have been astounded at the extent of cynicism and derision with which most people seem to view this country, the government, our monarchy, the economy, the NHS, education...you can name it and you can bet your bottom ~~dollar~~ pound that it can and will be vilified.

Now, I have nothing against a good debate and I love the fact that this country demonstrates an interest in International affairs, as well as being up to speed on the state of our own nation. But the incessant complaining about anything and everything is not what I would call constructive behaviour. I have been shocked at how, even the sunniest of people with the most positive of natural outlooks, likes nothing better than a good bitch at the state of the UK today. It riles me a little, but more than anything it makes me sad. If only more people could spend time living in another country, because it might increase their appreciation level of life in Britain. Is it perfect? Not at all. But, compared to many countries, in my experience, it looks after its citizens really well.

Still. It doesn't stop most people having a sense of humour. I love the comedic asides that I witness on a daily basis, the willingness to take the piss at the drop of a hat. The inability to take anything too seriously or earnestly for long. Love it, love it, love it. I haven't seen one instance of sincerity on steroids since arriving home and, personally, that is just how I like it.

Other quick observations...I have missed standing out from the crowd. There are many Brits who go to live in America and very quickly tire of the constant compliments on their verbal diction. I was not one of them. Right to the bitter end I loved the fact that, pretty much everywhere I went, strangers would comment on my lovely accent and a conversation would ensue. Without any effort whatsoever on my part, people would automatically attribute yours truly with an incredibly intelligent and educated personality. It was great. I have never understood other people in my position who have tired of this superficial adoration. Really, what's not to love?

Meanwhile I open my gob to talk here and nobody gives a monkeys. I sound just like everyone else and the shock of this sudden anonanimity was quite depressing.

Here's another thing - in Chicago my name also stood out from the crowd. Most people had simply never heard it before. Isn't that strange? Who would have thought the name Nicola would be so unusual, anywhere in the world? It was always commented upon. It was a fantastic means of making yet another positive and memorable impression, which is totally lost on ~~the gits~~ people in the UK of course.

Mind you, my name would be complimented mere seconds before it was ritually butchered. Apparently the name Nicola is in the Advanced Pronunciation Category for many of the people I met. I would frequently have to dig my nails into my own palms when being called "Ni-Coal-EEERRRR". Making an effort to correct people..."no, no, no - it's Nicola, as in rhymes with Ricola" was typically a fruitless exercise.

So it is quite nice to be back in the land where 'everyone knows your name'. Now all I have to do, to satisfy my own inner celebrity, is find another means to be noticed (as the accent/name combo have gone by the wayside). Jeez, does this mean I may have to develop an actual talent? Looks like I am going to have to get used to a life of relative invisibility I guess...

Did I Mention He is Obsessed with His Genitals?

2011-05-16T07:46:00.000-05:00

I couldn't resist posting this....I drafted it some time ago and it is purely going on record to contribute to the material I am going to use to embarrass Johnny Drama with his girlfriend(s) in future years...

It's nearing bedtime and tonight there is more than the usual pandemonium, due to the fact that the boys are on a promise to watch Total Wipeout if they get showered and into their pajamas before the show starts at 6pm.

I am darting around upstairs, supposedly assisting the boys but actually distracted by case packing.

Johnny Drama stands in the middle of his bedroom, naked but for a pair of socks. His penis, as usual, is safely enclosed in his left hand. He glances over to the wall, then without hesitation strides over and pushes his penis against the radiator.

"OUCH!" he shouts and immediately springs back. "Hot! Hot-Hot-Hot!" He plonks his luscious bottom onto the carpet and stretches and waves his penis around, I am assuming to cool it a little. I continue to hang back in the doorway long enough to hear him say, under his breath,

"Ooh - that's the first time I have burnt my penis." There is a note of incredulity and awe in his voice.

He looks over his shoulder at the radiator.

"Hmm - I bet that feels better with a sock." He wiggles over and places his socked foot gently onto the ribbed heater.

"Aaah. Much better. Next time, I just need a sock."

Problem solved.

"MUM! Mummy! I've got an ouchee. Can I have an ice pack? I have REALLY burnt my penis here..."

Of all the injuries I had anticipated as a mother, I have to say that this has never been one of them. And no...of course I didn't kiss it better.

The End of An Era

2011-05-15T09:59:00.000-05:00

Isn't it funny how you can re-read posts from your own life and yet not identify with them at all? I think that's how I feel about the last two posts certainly. Can that possibly have been me? Did I really feel that angry?

Life has moved on. And about bloody time.

The past three months have been eventful. The half term visit seems like a life time ago. I like to think that I carried myself with my usual dignity...whilst inside I was simply seething at rage over the matching Mr and Mrs luggage that was parked unceremoniously in my kitchen. Funny how it's the silliest things, the most banal evidence of his relationship with another woman, that hits me the hardest.

But here's the thing that really annoyed me the most...AG arrived in my house, after an 8 hour transatlantic flight, at 8am in the morning and looked...as fresh as a daisy. Her make up was perfect, her skin flawless, her teeth shiny. How did she do that? Is that purely an advantage of youth, which I never fully appreciated at the time? Not fair. I had merely to step out of bed and walk 15 steps down the stairs to the kitchen and I looked more exhausted than she did.

The boys scampered around AG, holding her hand and dragging her to each room of the house. I smiled wanly through gritted teeth and tried to avoid an inane conversation with Ex as we waited at the foot of the stairs. I finally managed to drag my own suitcase out of the house and decamp to my friend's, before swanning off to Stockholm to visit a friend for a few days. The change of scenery did me the world of good - it started to dawn on me that I need to seize these opportunities to grab life by the scruff of the neck and do my own thing, so I can stop being so fixated on the comparative lives of others.

Once home again I impulsively joined a gym, signed up for 3 months of eHarmony, started Ceroc dancing lessons twice a week, satisfied my inner Torvil and Dean by learning to ice skate, joined a local Rock Choir and also began to officially volunteer at the boys school two days a week. I also coordinated daily play dates for the boys and harangued mums that I particularly liked the look of to meet me for a coffee, so I could force my friendship upon them.

It was all a bit mad. It was all a bit much. After a couple of months the Rock Choir fell by the wayside and, as the weather has been so glorious, so has the ice skating. But it succeeded in kick starting my life again, with an optimism and energy that I haven't felt for a long time. I no longer felt in limbo - simply waiting to be in a position so my life could start again. This was it. I was galvanised into action and it felt fantastic.

At Easter I agreed to take the boys to Chicago, to visit their dad for a couple of weeks so that he could spend more time with them. I was dreading the trip. I had no compulsion whatsoever to revisit Chicago and return to the city where my life had taken such unexpected twists and turns. I coordinated a hectic social calendar, arranging to see my friends as a distraction from being in the one place on earth that I really did not want to be.

Yet in the end, it was a much needed trip that laid many ghosts to rest.

I woke up the first few days, staying at my friend's beautiful loft apartment, gazing out at the sun coming up over the concrete jungle that is Chicago in the Spring, and my heart reflexively palpitated to a point where I felt constantly nauseous. It was as though I had never left. I felt a sense of panic that I hadn't felt for a long time in London. I spoke to the boys daily and their tales were of people that I didn't even know - some of them AG's family - and I felt berefit that my children have a life that doesn't involve me at all. It's an unnatural feeling. I felt simply lost without them and my whole body ached to be around them again. The fact that they were gaily going about their lives and I wasn't a part of it whatsoever, felt like a physical wound.

I felt more than a little bit lost and confused by the feelings of familiarity with my surroundings - I just wanted to pick holes in the city that had been my home for half my adult life, to re-convince myself I had done the right thing in moving away.

But I couldn't ignore how fantastic it was to see my friends. These women who have meant the world to me over the past 2 years. The trip highlighted how much I missed them and how big the hole is in my life without them in it on a regular basis. Women friends do that to you, don't they? Family is critical, but friends? They're the best.

On the last day of the trip two very unexpected things happened. First, I got officially divorced. Ex and I had been wrangling over one aspect of the agreement, which finally got resolved when I was in Chicago. So on my final day in town I turned up at court with my lawyer, and Ex turned up with his, to get the divorce done and dusted by the judge. I didn't want to go. I can't tell you how much I really didn't want to go. Feelings of panic re-emerged and the thought of having to face up to the reality of the divorce - with Ex by my side - made my skin feel as though it was on the verge of breaking out in pustulous hives.

Ultimately, like many things that I have dreaded and don't feel capable of facing head on, I was so grateful that we faced that rite of passage together. That we both acknowledged the end of an era as a couple - almost our one last show of solidarity. It was emotional. It was poignant. It was therapeutic. It was closure. After 2 hours of waiting in a court room, making small talk and both slightly on edge, we finally stood before the judge, with our lawyers between us, and listened as the end of our marriage was read aloud in legalese. It felt quite momentous. It felt tremendously sad. It was incredibly official.

With my own blurry, tear filled vision, I watched Ex's eyes also well up with tears. We looked at each other with sympathy and understanding. And ultimately, although our lawyers tried to usher us out of the room separately, we drew together and walked out of the courtroom with our arms around each other, as we have comforted each other over the years, many times before. Outside the courtroom Ex held me tight and refused to let go. I could tell he was quietly crying. I was quietly crying. It was a mutual acknowledgement of our combined disappointment that the marriage, which we had set out on so optimistically over 12 years ago, had come to an end.

But not a bitter end actually, inspite of the past few months of angst and envy that I have felt. Not a bitter end at all.

In fact I felt almost an instant release - a sense of calm and closure, mixed with pure exhaustion and an element of elation that I wouldn't have to wake up to stressful messages from my lawyer anytime soon. A weight had been miraculously lifted. The monkey on my back had ceased trying to strangle me with it's strange, strong feet-like hands. I felt free. I felt relieved. I felt proud that, for the most part, I have conducted myself like the person I would most like to be, rather than following my primal instincts of destruction, retaliation and revenge.

And then I went out to get shit-faced.

Well, you know me - forever the dignified, sophisticated woman of the world.

Actually, the last thing that I felt like doing was going out that night. My bags were packed and I had nothing to wear. After such an unexpectedly eventful day, all I wanted to do was sleep. But it was my last night in town and my amazing friends from Book Club were going out, so it seemed a little churlish not to join them.

Fast forward a couple of hours and we are bar hopping. I am struggling to keep up with the alcohol consumption - my third drink is making my head spin and my stomach lurch. This could get ugly...I think to myself, as I set my drink down. The last thing I need is a hangover for the flight home with the boys and the subsequent jet lag we are going to be subjected to.

My friends are in fine form - raucous and slightly outrageous. I feel so sad to be leaving. I miss these opportunities to let my hair down - Chicago is such an easy town to socialise in (although on reflection I had been bored to tears by the bar scene in the 6 months previous). My attention is focused on my girlfriends and our ongoing banter. We are joking about some of the young men around us, as some of my friends are getting hit on. There's no point in me engaging in flirtation at this point, so I watch my friends and soak up the energy around me.

As I am reviewing the people filling up this trendy bar on a Wednesday night, I spot a man across the room. Well, in all fairness, it's hard not to spot him. He has to be at least 6ft5" tall, so is easily head and shoulders above everyone else there. I nudge the friend next to me. "Now THAT is the sort of man I totally like," I tell her, before we seamlessly return to our conversation. It's getting late. I feel drunk and tired and want to leave. I am persuaded to stay for another half an hour at least, but know I will reap the consequences of this the next day. Ugh. The flight home. I can't stand the thought of it.

Just as I am about to make my apologies and leave I get jostled from behind and turn to find the attractive tall man behind me. We talk and he is funny and smart and, in a heartbeat, I am seriously regretting the fact that I am leaving the next day. I instantly feel drawn to this stranger and completely at ease. I haven't felt this for a very long time. My whole body surges with energy and suddenly I don't want to go home at all.

Great timing Universe. What on earth's the point of that, then?

Oh God, being smitten with an American....my friends are going to KILL me.

Sucking Lemons

2011-02-17T11:41:00.000-06:00

I have days when I am so consumed with bitterness towards my Ex that I can barely function.

I never thought I would feel like this. Particularly after being separated for two years. Especially because we are so amicable for the most part.

Maybe that's the problem.

I'm so busy putting on a brave face and 'doing the right thing' for our children - that I have effectively swallowed all the hurt and anger that I genuinely feel and yet have never expressed. To him at least. It is all so unsatisfying.

I focus on my adorable children. I focus on the wonderful life I have (honest to God, I have so many things to be grateful for and KNOW that compared to many others I live the life of bloody riley). I am grateful that this whole separation and divorce has not been a traumatic shitstorm. It could have all been so much worse.

Still. It doesn't stop me from wanting to smash his bloody head in sometimes. Like a couple of weeks ago when we Skyped daddy at the weekend and I discovered he was on a weekend getaway in Miami with AG. From out of nowhere a tidal wave of acid erupted from my abdomen and crashed through my chest. This surge of resentment and envy - and downright hate - coursed through my body with such intensity that I had to walk out into the garden and physically cover my mouth to stop myself from screaming in bitterness and anger. My whole body was shaking - and yet all this pent up energy had nowhere to go. It seethed and writhed within me, while my head swam with vicious, venomous thoughts.

You see, sometimes when Ex is nice to me...I forget. I forget that he has moved on. I forget that when he says in an email 'I never stopped loving you' that he doesn't mean 'I never stopped being in love with you' (world of difference, isn't there?) and that actually, he has totally moved on and is IN LOVE WITH SOMEONE ELSE. And if we are talking Life of Riley...well, sometimes his lifestyle makes me want to chew my own socks with frustration.

IT WAS NEVER MEANT TO BE THIS WAY.

How on earth did it turn out this way?

Yet the biggest, most urgent question is, why am I still unable to come to terms with all this over 2 years later?

Why do I let this bitterness consume me at times? Why can't I just Let. It. Go? Please, dear God, I really do want to be free of it. I am so sick of being side-swiped by destructive emotions, that knock me out for days on end. And I know I am the only one who can choose not to allow his life to impact me emotionally. Which just makes it worse. It's not him, per se, it's me. Bleugh.

Despite my best efforts to be a spiritual, enlightened human being, it turns out that deep down, I am still like a sulking, self-absorbed child...

"But you told me you would ALWAYS love me...I trusted YOU! And I don't want you to be nice to me any more. I don't want anything to do with you any more. You lied to me. You spent years lying to me. And I can't forgive you for it. In fact, I hate you for it. Truly hate you for it. Because I trusted you more than I have ever trusted anyone in my life. And, whatever you might believe, you are not my friend - because friends don't betray each other like that. Ever. So I will smile at you and be nice in front of the children. I will pass on daily titbits about their day and ensure you feel constantly involved and updated on their lives. But really? Deep down? I would just prefer it if you would just Fuck Off and I never, ever had to see or talk to you, ever again."

Oh my. So much still to deal with. Thank God I don't feel like this every day. If it was constant, how on earth would you live with yourself? The random days here and there are bad enough as it is.

Of course, I would love to express all this to Ex - to dump it out there and just walk away. But I know it would just sit there in the middle of us...and it would definitely impact our boys. And once the words are said - well, they can never be retracted. And they would always be remembered, of that I am sure. So instead I will just say them here - and feel all the better for it. And I will push thoughts of him to the back of my mind and replace them with thoughts of my brave and beautiful boys.

Because really, they are two of the most incredible brave and beautiful boys that you would ever have the good fortune to come across.

I am astounded at how well they have settled in the UK. They are loving their new school and have made so many friends. Many of the parents have remarked what happy children they are, and how quickly they have adapted. I am so very proud of them. They really don't seem to hanker or yearn for their old life in Chicago at all - they are so immersed in the present moment and enjoying the freedom of their new life.

Things are working out really well with Johnny Drama - the consistent application of rules is working bloody wonders and his behaviour has improved beyond measure. I have also found that getting him to take on extra responsibility and tasks around the house serves to make him even better behaved, which is a bit of a result. And the more that I resist bringing Mummy Shouty Knickers into the equation, the less resistance and retaliation I encounter.

Honestly, the boys are a complete joy right now and I am, more or less, loving every minute that I spend with them.

As I said, I truly am very lucky. I have a lot to be grateful for. The Ex bitch slap will have to be consigned to my parallel world, where I have it on good authority that I am a total bitch and couldn't give two hoots about being nice...

Unwanted Visitors

2011-02-15T08:52:00.000-06:00

So it's nearly half term, which means that Ex is coming to the UK to spend the week with the boys.

This should be a good thing. A break for me. Some much needed bonding time for them. But I am dreading it.

You see, the arrangement we have - that I suggested in fact, way back when I was ensconced in Chicago and would just about promise anything to get home - is that when Ex comes to visit his sons, he stays in my house and I move out for the duration of the visit.

As well as being a much more homely environment for the boys to chill out with their dad, it also reduces his expenses and makes it more affordable for him to visit them more frequently.

Oh, it all seemed so obvious and doable when I was in Chicago. And I know, in my heart of hearts, it is in the boys best interests.

However...

Now I am here and it's MY home...I must be honest, I really don't want my Ex anywhere near it, not least have it tarnished with him sleeping in my bed, sitting on my sofa, shitting in my toilet, blowing his nose while using my shower, using my pots and pans and generally making himself at home in my space. What on earth was I thinking to even suggest such a thing?

What's worse, on this visit he is being accompanied by his girlfriend and they are going to be sharing my bed together. Therefore the amber alert potential of his early morning wank has graduated to the full blown red alert threat of their multiple orgasmic shags - the thought of which almost makes me want to move out...and never come back.

To be honest, it isn't really that my home (and new sheets!) are going to be sullied by his (or her) presence. It's just that I hadn't really considered what a pain in the arse it would be to move out for a weekend/week once or twice a month. It means that the break that I crave, from single-handedly looking after the boys 100% of the time, day and night, doesn't really materialise.

I don't have the money to pay for a hotel and am very lucky to have a very generous friend who allows me to stay over with her and her daughter. But it's not the same as being able to relax at home.

However, my main bone of contention is my suspicion that my Ex spends his visit judging my house and how I live. I just can't stand the fact that he is probably turning his nose up at my dinky little house with its shabby little fixtures. He has made it very obvious that he expects much more than this for himself and his girlfriend when he finally moves over. The last time he visited (only 2 weeks ago) I spent two whole days doing my best Mrs Mop impression, cleaning the house from top to bottom, so it would supposedly meet his expectations. Don't ask me why I did this. There is no sane explanation. The need to win his approval is one that I constantly feel I am fighting a losing battle with. I could climb Mt Everest in a swimsuit and a pair of ballet shoes and you can bet your bottom dollar he would fail to be impressed. So WHY I even bother would be a sure-fire question for my therapist (if I had one).

On the aeroplane home he wrote me an email entitled 'Your house...your rules ;-)' and then proceeded to give me a list of child proofing recommendations. Far be it from him to keep his opinions on where I am slacking to himself, obviously.

It's only four more days till his arrival and, already, I am edgy. I don't want to see him. I don't want to see her. I don't want to leave my home. The boys, needless to say, are counting their sleeps till their dad arrives and are breathless with excitement at the thought of spending six days with him. They deserve to have a lovely, relaxing, fun time with their dad - and I will continue to do whatever I have to do to make that happen. But it's not an ideal solution. Not for me, anyway. Far from it.

As I sit here in my cheery little kitchen, watching the clock hands tick slowly round to school pick up time, I can see a couple of small coffee stains on the work surfaces, flecks of mud on the floor, a fine layer of light dust on the table in the living room.

I am itching to clean it.

Desperate to whizz around the place like a maniacal housewife, armed with dusters, cloths and the ever faithful Mr Pledge before vacuuming every speck, hair and feather that I come across.

But I am not going to.

I am going to resist the urge to clean this time, even though I think it might induce a panic-attack. So what if he (or she) thinks the place is a mess? So bloody what? As if their opinion counts anyway. In fact, while I am at it, I might go one better. Just before they arrive I could scatter the contents of the bathroom bin over the floors, just to give that truly lived in vibe. Then, to test their nosy natures, I should fill my bedside table with all manner of dildos, butt plugs, handcuffs and toys of a dubious sexual nature, along with a selection of half used lubes and a well thumbed selection of erotic fiction. (That would make a slight change from the box of spare light bulbs and half used Vicks Sinex that currently lives there...)

Or not.

To clean or not to clean...? That is the question.

Oh, look at the time - better get myself out in to the rain and on with the school run. The cleaning can wait.

Till tomorrow at least.

Defiant To The Very End

2011-02-07T06:53:00.001-06:00

So I have to face facts here. I have a very truculent, constantly defiant, verging on intolerably rude 5 year old on my hands these days.

I think, to be honest, he has been living with me for approximately 2 years but I have steadfastly stuck my head in the sand and refused to acknowledge it. Have gladly made all manner of excuses for his disobedience, general lack of respect and violent outbursts.

'He's acting up because his parents are separating'.

'He's testing the boundaries because he is 3...4...5'.

'He's not really a destructive little shit at heart, he just doesn't have the emotional capacity to express his innermost turmoil over the move home...'

Maybe there is a nugget of truth in all of these statements - but it is getting to the point where I now feel that I have to apologise and attempt to explain his behaviour to family and friends. His roguish demeanor is seen as being obnoxious and disdainful to others when he is not getting his own way (and even sometimes when he is). And I just feel overwhelmed by the task ahead of me in trying to straighten him out.

Part of me struggles because I know, deep down, that Johnny Drama - as well as being an incredibly loving and affectionate child - is also quite trepidatious. On the surface he is brash and confident. A scene stealer. Seeks the spotlight and adores being the centre of attention. Highly competitive (particularly against his older brother, who doesn't seem to give two hoots as to whether he wins, loses or draws).

But actually he is much more fearful of new situations, openly doubts his abilities and gets his knickers in a right old twist about not being as competent as his peers. Stick him in the garden with a football and a couple of mates and he is in his element. Sign him up for a sports class of any description, even one he particularly excels at, and he will sit cautiously on the sidelines and refuse to participate out of sheer nerves.

He is also the boy who, on one hand, will stick his tongue out when being told off and hit me if a request for sweets or more TV is turned down. But on the other hand will smother me in cuddles and kisses, pronouncing regularly and in the softest and most ardent of voices "I love you so much Mama. My heart squeezes so much love for you that it just wants to explode all out of my body, everywhere."

It's obvious that I haven't dealt with this Jekyll and Hyde behaviour well. I know I should have nipped it in the bud a long time ago, rather than making excuses. Initially, it seemed that I bore the brunt of his anger and defiance - and I'm ashamed to admit that I think I let a lot of it ride because I felt, deep down, that I deserved it.

Now his behaviour is extending to family, friends and at school. He even whacked my dad on their last visit, which earned him a significant time out, but it shocked me out of my complacency a little - how on earth does he have the confidence and gall to hit one of his grandparents? On what planet has he been led to believe that is acceptable behaviour? And who is responsible for guiding his actions and teaching him right from wrong? Well, that would be me then. Look what a stellar job I must be doing. It's mortifying. But I know the crux of it is that I am not doing my beloved son any favours by letting him behave this way. And a simple time out or a telling off doesn't seem to have much effect. I know the time has come to be more hard core and, more importantly, ruthlessly consistent.

Oh, how fucking exhausting that sounds just writing it down. And therein lies the problem - I just feel too weary to tackle it alone.

Which I guess has been my excuse for a very long time now.

Has anyone else dealt with this before? You know, the whole Second Child Syndrome on steroids?

I know I need to step up and stop making excuses, because I would hate him to become the insensitive, self-absorbed bully that we have all seen or experienced as he gets older. I've read enough books to know what I ought to be doing and, although I think I am applying the techniques religiously, I think my sister would agree that in real life I typically exhibit a Warts And All style of parenting.

Oh God, it's so depressing to think that I have moulded this little monster. My very own engaging, hilarious, gregarious, energetic, passionate miniature schizophrenic.

Where the Heart Is

2011-01-27T08:43:00.000-06:00

Oh God, I am so happy. Incandescently happy. To be home.

The first few days were a bit bewildering, as though my mind couldn't quite take in the transition. Couldn't let itself truly believe that the move was, in fact, complete. Permanent. Real. I began to meticulously record the weather on the calendar hanging in my new kitchen. Overcast but very warm. Slight rain today, but, strangely enough, even though the roads were slick and the skies heavy, we didn't get wet. Sun and blue sky. A cheeky reassurance from that most cheerful of orbs...see, I do visit England from time to time, don't believe everything the Brits will readily tell you...

I love my new little house. Every time I come downstairs in the morning, the bright kitchen grins at me and the living room welcomes me with open arms. Hello again, they say. Yes, you are still here. It's not a dream. Get your coffee and have a sit down, put on the radio and drink it all in. Savour your home.

And it really does feel like a home, now that my belongings have finally arrived and are in situ. In fact, it feels so homely (to me, at least) that I almost resent leaving it at all. I scurry back to it daily, after walking the boys to school, and breathe in its cheeriness and relish the quiet.

At the back of the house (beyond the tepid, tip of a garden which is, quite frankly, a total embarrassment compared to my neighbours) lies the woods. We traipse through the woods every day on our way to and from school. I haven't had this much fresh air for years. My boys have never been outside and walked this much in their lives. We are all physically tired but also exhilarated by our daily ramblings up and down slopes, through (almost leafy) glens, treks through damp ditches and adventures through thickets. The boys are in their element.

I knew they were true Brits at heart.

After initially fearing the mud and getting dirty (heaven forbid), they now plod through muck with the best of them and wear their filthy clothes and wellies with pride. I love it. There is nothing they like better than scampering down the parkland walk to a huge tree swing and spending hours twisting, turning, flying over ground with whoops and cheers and pride at their speed and fearlessness.

They both got into my first choice of school, which is even better than my first impressions, and I feel insanely lucky to have achieved this miraculous feat. The kids are friendly and caring, the teachers are switched on and energetic, the parents are smart, interesting and welcoming. It's all very pollyanna right now. I keep resolving to Never take these rose tinted glasses off - goddamit I will super glue the buggers onto the side of my face if necessary.

PLUS, I am living with an adult again! I know! It's just such a thrill to have another physical presence mooching around the house after dark, who is taller than 4ft and (marginally) maturer than your average 7 year old. The icing on the cake is that this (so called) adult is none other than my sister and, after the first week (where I am sure we were both thinking yea Gods, this is never going to bloody work) we have now settled into a groove and it's lovely. Beyond lovely. Luxurious. What's more, she even makes me a cup of tea at approximately 9pm, when my bones are so firmly attached to the sofa I am incapable on movement. For this, and much more, I love her and am relishing the sheer novelty of adult company every day. I had forgotten - I had completely forgotten - how nice it was to share your life with an adult and not to feel so isolated and alone. It's a very unexpected bonus of moving home and I am really treasuring the time with her.

The other realisation which has me grinning wryling on a regular basis, is how very titchy things are over here, compared to the land of Supersize USA. My goodness, this country really is quaint in comparison. The cars for example. It's as though many of them have been borrowed from the land of Lilliput. The roads, lanes and pavements...so very narrow. You can't help but get intimately acquainted with strangers coming in the opposite direction when you are on foot, which is hilarious when you consider how uncomfortable physical proximity seems to make the average Brit. I am so tempted to goose people on these occasions. If I'm not careful, I'm going to get myself arrested.

The things that don't leave me grinning? Oh yes, there are a couple. Tubs of hummus is one. Why on earth would you create a flavour of hummus as delicious and moreish as Caramalised Onion...and then retail it in a tub so small that you are scrapping the bottom of it when you are only half way through a packet of sugar snap peas??? Why, people, why? I simply don't understand the mentality of not being able to buy a bucket of my favourite food and being able to eat wads of it on a daily basis, without the fear of it running out by your third mouthful.

The other is my washing machine, which is miniscule by even standard British proportions. Throw in a hand towel and three pairs of knickers and the thing is pretty much full. We've owned toy drums with a bigger capacity. I guess on the plus side, I don't have to worry about either the boys (or the cat, when it finally arrives out of quarantine) crawling and locking themselves inside it. It is barely bigger than the circumference of Captain Underpants head (which is suitably oversized compared to your average 7 year old, but still).

Ho. Ho. Bloody Ho.

2010-12-25T20:41:00.061-06:00

So that's another Christmas over and done with. Well, nearly. And thank God (or Jesus, perhaps?) for that. There WILL come a time when it is a day I look forward to and truly celebrate again...and not just dread for weeks and then limp through wanly with a drag queen smile plastered on my face.

At least I got to spend most of the day with my boys, for which I guess I should be very grateful.

They went to their dads the night before Christmas Eve. The arrangement Ex and I have had for the past 2 years (this is our 3rd Christmas since we separated) is that we would always spend Christmas and their birthdays together. This was a principle that I insisted upon, because I had always hated the fact that as a child, ever since my parents divorced, we were never able to celebrate a single event together as a family. And I have always wished that was different. Christmas and birthdays were never the same again with one parent always absent.

How ironic then, that I seem to be the one struggling the most following through with our agreement. This year I just wanted to run screaming for the hills rather than face a day with Ex, painfully aware of my every move, gesture and word in his presence. Unable to relax for a single moment and conscious of every forced conversation - trying, oh so hard, to be polite and cheerful and natural. There felt nothing natural about my performance today. By the time I left, feeling guilty about leaving the boys before their bedtime, I was emotionally wrought and physically exhausted.

Of course, it didn't help that plans had, unbeknownst to me, changed from those we had agreed upon over the 'phone a week ago. Ex confirmed he was going to be alone with the boys - and I was to join them. I enquired about AG's plans, to a non-commital response, so I took a deep breath and suggested she should join us in the afternoon - and then late afternoon I would leave them to it.

I wake up in my friend's beautiful home and spend an hour with her family, the children tearing their way through the piles of presents while the adults sip coffee and take pains to avoid the dreaded video camera. My friend has bought me luxurious gifts and written a card that almost has me in tears. Part of me just wants to hole up in their house all day and another part of me is itching to see the boys.

Before 9am I drive to Ex's home and, of course, who is the first voice I hear before the door is open? It's her. She's there. She's woken up with my children on Christmas morning and is seemingly going to be there all day. As I stand on the threshold to the house (where I can hear my boys leaping over each other to be the first to the door, to let mummy in) I can feel my blood pressure sky rocket and there is practically steam coming out of my ears. I am instantly livid to the point of turning puce and feel totally ambushed. What a disrespectful fucker. Why couldn't he have warned me? My little two year old self wanted to have an almighty tantrum. The teenager in me was in a monumental huff. Luckily my adult self managed to seize control before the door opened and I was able to stuff my bitch face grimace into the waistband of my control top tights (really, there is nothing that can escape those buggers) and plaster a Happy Christmas smile on my face.

Watch out for the Oscar nomination, folks, in January. I'm telling you, it's definitely on the cards this year.

There were hugs all round, but I couldn't look Ex in the eye. Far be it from me to confront the issue and effectively 'spoil the day'. Ex and AG cooked breakfast, while the boys showed me the gifts they had already unwrapped in their stockings. AG was as pleasant as ever (I really can't find one single person to say a bad word about her - even those that have made it their life's ambition to nitpick the hell out of anybody and everybody - which is just so damned irritating, isn't it?). I didn't have much of an appetite (actually not true - I pretended not to be hungry purely to be petulant and because this whole sitting around the table, 'breaking bread together' still makes me feel like a bit of a prune...as though I am somehow being made a fool of by being so compliant with AG in our lives).

After breakfasts, we opened gifts. And I guess that is when I started to relax and accept the new version of Christmas v.2010. Of course, the focus was completely on the boys and they were so overjoyed with everything that they opened, it was easy to be distracted. AG and I sat near each other, but I still can't bring myself to initiate a conversation directly with her. There is not a single molecule in my body that can feign any interest whatsoever in her life and adventures with my (soon to be ex) husband. It's all just a little too close to home. But her presence does make things a little easier between Ex and I. A buffer. I try hard not to scrutinise her too closely and formulate questions in my head, like "WHY does he prefer you, exactly?" and "are you a bit of an animal in bed, because I just can't picture that myself?" I wonder if she thinks the same about me? Probably not. Hence the preference, possibly.

The boys bounce all over me, like over grown puppies, lavishing me with affection and insisting that I help out with their new lego projects. AG has bought me a book that I wanted and written a thoughtful card, thanking me for letting her be a part of the boys birthdays and Christmas. I have bought her a bag full of Lush goodies from the boys, which seems to go down well. It's all very civil, verging on pleasant.

Then, unexpectedly, AG leaves to see her family. I am relieved - yet it is far more awkward without her around. The next few hours are strange. As though we are playing happy families. I keep laughing and joking with the boys, but inside I feel lost at sea and lonely - in their house, surrounded by pictures of their happy coupledom. I spot a picture of AG and the boys in their bedroom and it instantly fans the flames of jealousy and resentment. Am I wrong to feel it's a liberty? How would he feel if the situation was reversed? Even after 2 years of separation, it still feels way too soon to accept this other woman's place in the boys lives. I can't stand seeing the physical evidence of all the things that they do together. It smarts like a fresh wound all over again. I just ache to leave - not the boys, but definitely this home where I do not belong. Where I have no place at all.

Late afternoon, I decide to leave. The boys are sad and ask me to stay. They want me to sleep over. How much do they understand of this situation, I wonder? Do they see us making an effort to get along and think....maybe? Maybe if we just nudge the situation a little, our family will be reinstated. At Christmas.

I feel guilty as I kiss them goodbye. Their hugs are reluctant and I know I am letting them down by not staying longer. By not having the strength to see this day out to the bitter end. I leave, berating myself internally, and struggling not to cry as I drive away in the snow. It's just another day and I have done the best that I could. But, yet again, I don't think it's been good enough.

It's just not how Christmas should be - but it will be the last one of its kind. That's the intention.

Six Sleeps and Counting

2010-12-21T20:47:00.000-06:00

Okay - probably ought to preface this post by saying I am a little teensy, weensy bit drunk (and intending to get slaughtered...but only after I have hit "publish post". God this chardonnay is like drinking liquid butter).

So it was the boys' last day at school. I am dealing with all these goodbyes on autopilot. I know the tears are being stored up to be shed later (hopefully they are being stored in my increasingly ample thighs, which will shrink to microscopic proportions when the tears are finally set free...fingers crossed).

I have been dreading this day, but it ended up being very civilised, verging on anti-climatic. There were no street banners, streamers let loose from the roof or marching bands. It was just like any other end of term day, with the exception that both boys received beautiful hand made scrap books from their classes as a memento. We have been pouring over them since we arrived home. No doubt, I will be able to commit each page to memory within the next 24 hours. But the boys have taken it all in their stride and don't seem to truly appreciate that this was their last ever day at this school. Or maybe they do and I have just raised a couple of heartless little buggers? Time will tell.

This school has been such a huge part of my life for the past four years. A lifeline, much of the time. I know their class mates so well and have meaningful relationships with many of the parents. Strange to think this life will continue without us. I am going to miss it.

The boys are so focused on Christmas right now, that nothing seems to be particularly phasing them. Which is a good thing. We went to a Christmas party at the weekend and, of course, Santa was there. Even at the ages of 5 and 7, they are still a little intimidated by Santa. Almost reverent. Mind you, that's a darn sight better than a few years ago, when they regarded Santa as a combination of the Abominable Snow Man and Jack the Ripper, judging by the screams and tears whenever we attempted to sit them on his knee for the obligatory photo. Now, they are quiet and serious and in total awe. Is this the last Christmas that they will believe? I hope not. Even though this year's Santa was wearing a coat and hat trimmed with pink fur (me thinks someone unintentionally boil washed his suit, making the colours run...such a novice mistake, don't you think?) and fake 'pleather' booties, they were totally convinced he was The Real Deal. At the end of their little sojourn with Santa they both received a little bell on red ribbon, which both delighted and convinced them even more than ever. Just the previous night we had read The Polar Express for the first time, so the bell had particular poignancy. I couldn't have planned it better myself.

Of course, all this awe and reverence quickly faded once a carton of apple juice hit their stomachs and they ended the party by being accomplices in the smashing of a small, cracked window. Nice. A couple of hoodlums, I'm telling you. I, quite frankly, didn't make much of a better impression by yelling "FUCK!" in a foyer full of joyful parents and children, when the heavy outer door handle swung with some force and hit me on the hip. Really. You can't take us anywhere.

In a State of Denial

2010-12-16T17:09:00.000-06:00

So the past few weeks have been manic.

The final two weeks of November I was simply packing like a woman possessed. And, although I say so myself, really - I should turn professional. I think I might have found my true calling. There was no sentiment attached to the appraisal of every inanimate object before making a split second decision on pack/donate/bin. I am the Queen of sorting out tat. And boy, even after the cull I did in the summer, we still seemed to have accrued mountains of it.

Well, not any more. With any luck I will be unpacking a shipment of 113 items (don't ask me how it is that many...but the last minute purchase of essential sleds and skateboards didn't help) safe in the knowledge that every item swathed in acres of paper is essential to my London existence. I wonder how long it will take me to accumulate fresh hordes of unnecessary tat to fill every cupboard and drawer? Despite my best intentions I am hedging my bets and guessing April, at the very latest.

Packing my clothes, for what could be up to 2 months, presented the biggest dilemma. I resolved the issue of what single pair of boots to wedge in the case by the age old technique of "ippa-dippa-dation-my-operation-how-many-people-at-the-station?" It's not the most scientific technique available. Or the most effective, because there isn't a single day that has gone by that I don't rue the pair I should have selected instead. How on earth did I think this pair of boots was The One? Oh well. I guess if this is the extent of my packing regrets, I haven't done too badly.

In fact, everything went accordingly to plan except for one thing. The most important thing. The cat. Yes, after all the cat drama and trauma of the past few weeks you would think I had had my fill for the year and that, by rights, everything regarding my surviving cat, Bert, should have been tickety-boo. This was not the case.

He was successfully collected by the specialist pet shipper, I handed over all the relevant paperwork and waved a tearful goodbye. How am I going to get through the next 48 hours, I thought to myself, until I know he is safely at my dad's? Oh famous last thoughts. If only it had turned out to be just 48 hours of concern. Turns out there is a minor discrepancy in his rabies certifications, which means he needs to endure 6 months of quarantine. I still can't think about it without feeling sick and distraught way beyond the point of tears. I have investigated every avenue and potential solution (of course) but there is no alternative aside from shipping him back to Chicago. So as I type he is currently imprisoned in a farm in Essex, being looking after by a very caring woman called Kim and her team. My dad visited last week and said he was purring up a storm and seemed in good health. But still. It is the last thing I wanted for him and I am mad as hell at the vet and the customs bureaucrats...but, most of all, myself.

It's sod's law that something had to go awry at the last minute. But I really wish it had been something other than the cat being effectively punished by my desire to move.

I am now safely encamped at a close friend's beautiful house in one of the nicest neighbourhoods in Chicago. This was not the wisest idea, on reflection, because I am enjoying myself so much that leaving is the last thing on my mind. In fact, I am in a total state of denial about the fact that I will be boarding a plan in just 10 days time, possibly never to return. I just can't think about it. I don't have the emotional capacity to face the enormity of this move in any shape or form. So for the most part I am simply ignoring it, pretending nothing remotely out of the ordinary is on the horizon and specifically avoiding friends incase we get caught up in a frenzy of sentimental goodbyes that crack my "I am handling this okay" veneer.

The boys are doing remarkably well. Christmas is a big distraction - which is both a blessing and a curse. So much more to pack. So much more to coordinate, on top of everything else. We have additional 'mini-xmas' celebrations planned with family and friends when we get home, so with any luck they will be distracted until at least mid-January. They are a combination of excited and anxious about the move. It breaks my heart a little to witness the extraordinary bonds they have with their close friends and know that those friendships - which mean everything to them on a daily basis - are going to be lost. We will keep in touch with many of these boys and girls, and even see many of them as they visit the UK on a regular basis (oh, the beauty of attending an International school). But it won't be the same. And that makes me sad.

In fact there are many things I will miss about being in Chicago, now I think about it. Juicy steak that is always cooked to perfection (who cares about the steriods, it just adds to the flavour). Huge parallel parking spaces in every garage you encounter. A clean glass of iced water presented immediately upon arrival at any cafe, restaurant or bar. Click and Clack The Tappit Brothers radio show on NPR. Closely followed by Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me. The most incredible city skyline I have ever seen in the world. Intense blue summer skies refecting into a cobalt blue lake, which is so immense it resembles an ocean. The sale room in Anthropology. The sale rail at Club Monaco. Half and half for my morning coffee. Dunkin Donuts vanilla coffee (you can get it in a styrefoam bucket, exactly how you like it - extra cream and one sugar for me - for under $2). Drinking cocktails on the 95th floor of the John Hancock building. The noise of the el clattering about my head, as the trains wind their way above the city streets. The efficiency of the snow ploughs and gritting trucks when a blizzard hits. The ability to buy a beautiful DKNY cozy sweater (retailing at $195 plus tax) on clearance for just $29 at Marshalls. And don't get me started on the delights of my local supermarket Trader Joe's. The fact that I couldn't ship home a huge box of edible goodies is one of my biggest disappointments.

Anyway, I don't have the luxury of thinking about all the things I am going to miss just yet.

I am far too preoccupied with the thought of how many layers of clothes I am going to have to wear on the plane, because my case simply won't accommodate the bags of must-have bargains I have been insane enough to purchase the past 2 weeks. Goddam you Banana Republic and your ridiculous sale. It is your fault and your fault alone that I am going to look like the bloody Michelin Man at check in.

So if you happen to be at Heathrow on the 28th December and you spot a rather hot and bothered person resembling a bag lady and wearing what appears to be her entire wardrobe...well, that will be me.

Loss

2010-11-17T14:34:00.000-06:00

It's a grey day today. The sky is monochrome and the weather is decidedly dreary. Which is a bit of a blessing. It wouldn't have seemed fitting to put down my beloved cat on a bright, sunny day.

Feeling a little bit bleugh right now. It's not just losing Ernie. I can't quite shake the sense of loss I have about leaving Chicago. It's not really leaving the city, or America. I have been lucky to live here - and there have been many fun times and great experiences - but it's always been a bit of a hit or miss relationship and I have never truly felt like I have belonged. However, the thought of leaving my dear friends does leave me feeling bereft. Strange how I haven't gone anywhere yet, but I already miss them.

People seem to think I should be excited about moving home. And after all this time of fighting for the right to move home with the boys, I should feel excited about moving back, of course I should, for so many reasons. But I don't quite yet. In fact, at times I feel quite the opposite. It's not a sense of dread or regret, but it is a sense of deep sadness. I don't think I will miss Chicago itself to a large degree, but the loss of my friends here is a different matter entirely.

But then again, the underlying tone of my 10 years in Chicago is tinged with loss.

First the loss of my independence. Boy, I wasn't expecting that. I had been so gung-ho about living in another country, so it was strange to arrive on the back of my husband's working visa and to immediately be persona-non-grata. I couldn't get a job, couldn't co-sign the lease on our apartment, couldn't get a mobile phone, couldn't jointly be on any of the utilities. It seemed to take me forever to get a social security card. It was a shock to the system, after being independent from 18 years of age, to suddenly be totally co-dependent, verging on invisible. I even had to start using my married name, which I had never done in the UK, because sticking to my maiden name was causing so much confusion and hassle. I don't think my husband ever understood why this made me so angry and feel so belittled, but I have always resented the bureaucratic push I was given which seemed to change my whole identity to 'wife'.

Then there's the loss of my career. Before arriving in Chicago I had worked for 15 years in Advertising and Marketing and was proud of my achievements. I don't think I had really appreciated how significantly my job had defined my sense of self. I did work for an advertising agency in Chicago, but unexpectedly felt like a square peg in a round hole. The working culture was so undeniably different. After 6 months I settled in, but options for continuing my career once I had children were extremely limited. My choice was to go back to work full-time after 12 weeks of maternity leave (with only 2 weeks holiday) or to not work at all. There was no happy medium. And I guess when it came down to it, my career meant a lot to me...but being a hands-on, present mum meant more.

I did try to return to work but was incredibly frustrated that there were seemingly no flexible alternatives. I interviewed at a few places and spoke to several recruitment agencies, but repeatedly came up against a brick wall. Eventually I re-trained as a personal trainer and did work part-time, but it was never a professionally satisfying alternative. And the pay was crap. Yet again, my self-esteem took a good kicking and I felt all the more like a second class citizen.

Of course, prior to the disintegration of my career we lost our first son. Along with the devastating grief and the introduction of a black hole in my heart, I experienced a loss of my own physical confidence. Suddenly I was no longer a strapping, healthy lass, forever at the gym and taking on new fitness challenges. My body had failed me. I no longer trusted it. It was no longer an ally I could rely on, but a reviled enemy who had let me down in the most unforgivable way. Its failure at the most important time of my life contributed to the death of our son. There was no-one else to hold accountable except for my own, previously undiscovered, physical flaws.

So in a way, it was no wonder that ultimately, after losing so much of what I recognised as being irrefutably me, I would lose my marriage too. I was no longer the person that had stood at the alter on that sunny day in June. I had changed beyond recognition. Become the antithesis of the values and principles I had once lived my life by. I hadn't yet had the time, or energy, to replace all these critical components of me that I felt I had lost since coming to America, when my husband decided he was Done.

At the time, it felt like I had truly lost everything. For a while Chicago represented the toughest of times, where my life took a series of turns that I had never anticipated and prepared myself for. It was hardly the carefree, exciting 2 year adventure that I naively set out on over 10 years ago.

Yet I know I would not have the strength and optimism I have today about my future, without the love and support of my friends in Chicago over the years.

God, I'm going to miss them.

Catastrophe

2010-11-07T16:34:00.001-06:00

Life is so great at throwing curve balls, isn't it?

Just when everything seems to be falling into place, there's yet another drama. The last two weeks have been surprisingly calm. The house in North London is OURS - I am still have trouble digesting the fact that, after all this time, it does appear that I will in fact be moving home to the UK by the end of the year. I have a new home, I have applied to the local borough for school places, I am coordinating all the logistics for a transatlantic relocation for me and the boys. It is so overwhelming that I can't quite get to grips with the fact that it is actually going to happen, but the fact that the house is ours makes it real. There's no going back now and the sense of relief is enormous.

The only concern I had was what to do with my two cats. I had planned to take them home, but started to think that maybe it would make more sense and be better all round if I found them a new home in Chicago. Which of course is easier said than done.

I have had both cats since they were kittens, adopting them both when we first moved to Chicago and I was volunteering at a local no-kill shelter. They are now 9 years old and part of me just wanted to spare them the trauma of a move. So I emailed everyone in my contacts list, placed local ads and waited for the offers to come pouring in. And waited. And waited. Lots of people expressed concern for the cats, and my predicament, but it appeared that all the cat lovers were already inundated with felines and there was nobody willing to take them.

I knew that taking them to a shelter would not be an option. I couldn't desert my faithful, loving pets without knowing whether or not they had a family to go to, so just last week decided that I had to bite the bullet and start to coordinate plans for their move to the UK. Once I made the decision, I again felt an overwhelming sense of relief. It was going to be costly - nearly $3,000 - and I wasn't sure where that money was going to come from, but all the alternatives seemed too heartless to contemplate. It's only money, I told myself, and started to get all the paperwork together to make it happen.

However, there was one nagging concern at the back of my mind. My big, fat, fluffy hair ball of a ginger tom, Ernie, had lost a lot of weight. I knew I had reduced the cats diet a couple of months ago and initially I assumed that it was a natural side-effect from eating less. But as I watched him more closely, I began to notice that he no longer had a ferocious appetite. And then in the last few days he seemed to have no appetite at all.

Oh no, I thought. What's going on now? I don't have time to deal with this. I felt sure it was nothing but googled 'cat weight loss' nevertheless. Of course the internet threw back a list of ailments as long as my arm, all of which looked alarming and expensive. I decided to book an appointment at the vet the following week to get him checked out, reassuring myself that it was probably a simple ailment that could be cured simply with medication.

When I woke up on Saturday, with a busy and fun-filled day planned (the expat bloggers were in town and I was excited to spend the day with them) Ernie could barely drag himself up the stairs. His fur was bedraggled and greasy looking. From being a chunky, lump of a cat just a few months ago he was now skin and bones. I could no longer ignore the obvious. I had a sick cat on my hands and needed to take him to the vet immediately.

A couple of hours later I was sat in the vet waiting room, feeling fairly optimistic that I was panicking over nothing. It's bound to be a simple parasite, I thought, which would explain the weight loss. I couldn't allow myself to think that it was anything worse. Having made the decision to take both cats back the UK, the thought that Ernie might now be suddenly and inexplicably ill and unable to travel, made no sense at all.

The vet came in and looked him over. Ernie purred in his usual friendly fashion. He has a big, traction engine type of purr that reverberates through his whole body and reflects his general contented personality. The vet looked at his teeth, as I explained my concerns, then she started to feel the rest of his body. I suddenly remember that I forgot to bring his faeces sample with me and internally berate myself for forgetting the evidence which would reveal the parasites. The vet pauses in her examination and looks me in the eye. "Ernie has a large tumour in his abdomen. I can't be sure, but in my opinion I think it could be lymphoma. I'm going to have to run more tests. Can you come back in 45 minutes?"

I look at my cat, who is obviously a shadow of his former self, and burst into tears.

Oh holy crap. Cancer. How? Why? And why now, for Christ's sake? What does this mean? Is it curable? And what will the treatment involve? How can I possibly deal with this, when I am going to be homeless in 3 weeks and living in my friend's basement?

I stagger out to Starbucks and email Ex to tell him the news. He responds immediately and is kind, considerate and thoughtful. He reminds me that I have given Ernie nine very happy years and that he probably wouldn't have survived as a kitten if I hadn't nursed him around the clock for the first few months. He tells me to keep him posted. I call a friend and can't seem to stop the tears. I can't help feeling that I gave a sign to the universe that this cat was disposable, that he wasn't wanted. And it had responded with a fatal solution to not having to bare the expense and stress of shipping him home.

Eventually I go back to the vet, dreading the results and feeling sure this was going to be a worse case scenario prognosis. Which it is. There are options for surgery / chemo / long-term treatment, but none of them are guaranteed to cure the disease. And he certainly can't travel back to the UK in a matter of weeks. The vet kindly advises me that euthanasia is probably the kindest and most respectful option.

I cuddle Ernie close to me and he purrs rhythmically in my ear. I don't feel ready to lose him. I don't know what I was thinking about even considering re-homing him several weeks ago. Out of the two cats, Ernie was always the one from a kitten that has been attached to me like velcro, taking every opportunity open to him to coat me in a layer of hair impervious to most lint rollers. He has the sweetest, most loving nature. The thought of putting him down is heartbreaking.

I call Ex and tell him what is happening. I can't stop the tears as I am talking, although I am trying my hardest to keep my shit together. I have decided to take Ernie home, with medication, to be able to say a proper goodbye. The vet assures me he isn't in any discomfort right now, although he probably will be soon. The medication will increase his appetite a little and make him a little more alert. When I am ready I can bring him back and be with him while he is put to sleep.

I drive home slowly and sit on the couch all afternoon with Ernie curled up on my chest. This wasn't how this weekend was meant to be. I feel sad and somehow responsible for my pet's imminent death. I feel worried about how his brother, Bert, the little black mischief maker is going to cope in his absence. I'm not sure how I am going to cope with his absence. Yes, he is just a pet, just a cat. The boys love both cats, but that affection has never, in all honesty, been returned (with both cats running a mile as soon as the boys are within sprinting distance). But they will be sad. And I am going to miss him very, very much.

This is the trouble with having animals as part of your family, isn't it? Their life span is shorter to start with, so the relationship is duty bound to end in heartbreak. I can't tell you how many times I have moaned about having the cats over the past two years, particularly when tripping over them carrying armfuls of laundry or shooing them out of my kitchen when trying to get everyone fed. There have been times I have really resented the responsibility of having to find people to look after them whenever we have gone on holiday. And I've felt guilty if I haven't had the time to give them much attention, when they seem permanently desperate for a lap to curl up on. Some times I have just wanted to sit down and write a blog post for heaven's sake (okay, not that often admittedly) which is hindered somewhat when there is a cat determined to sprawl across the keyboard. And it's probably best not to mention at this point my constant whinging about Cat Hair and it's ability to impregnate every surface with super glue tendencies.

Because despite the minor irritations and my petty little grumbles, I really love having pets and I have been really lucky to have had such a gentle and affectionate cat.

Goodbye my darling Ernie. Turns out you were always meant to be an American cat - and not an English moggy - after all.

Quick Update from Crazy (or should that be lazy?) Town

2010-10-24T09:49:00.001-05:00

A whole day has gone by and I am still sitting here in my pajamas gazing into space. I feel incapable of movement. Any physical action seems to require such a momentous exertion of energy that I feel immediately light-headed and nauseous. I can't quite seem to stop the muscles in my legs and arms from trembling. I can't quite seem to stop my brain whirring, with hypochondriac tendencies, convincing myself that I am definitely on the verge of a major ailment. Probably a stroke. Surely not something as simple as a panic attack.

However, if I look on the bright side...if I tell myself that the main objective of the 'wasted' day was to conserve energy and to do as little as humanly possible...then I guess I could say the day has been a roaring success. And maybe it is little wonder that I feel so physically and emotionally depleted. It has been another insanely busy week here in Crazy Town. Hurray for a sofa free of Gormiti's and Lego and back-to-back episodes of America's Next Top Model. Perfect fodder for the temporarily brain dead.

Finally - FINALLY - all the references, applications, bank details have been submitted for the house we are trying to rent in the UK. I also wired the money, using my new Smart Currency Account, which saved $$$'s on the exchange. With any luck the money will be with the estate agent early next week and the contract will be finalised. Maybe then I will be able to take a breath. Maybe then I will be able to stop the sensation of falling through space, even with my feet planted firmly on the ground. Maybe then I will be able to control what appears to be the early onset of Lockjaw and grinding my molars into stubs.

You see, it all sounds like this process was quite simple and straightforward. The Estate Agent and currency company asked for information - I provided information...and, hey presto! Of course the actual process was fraught with hourly setbacks and issues, compounded by the time difference which meant that if I couldn't get everything achieved by 11am Chicago time, I was pretty much snookered until the next morning. Even the straightforward process of getting documents printed and scanned turned into a scene reminiscent of an Abbott and Costello sketch. I don't have a printer. I don't have a scanner. I emailed information frantically to friends - only to find that their printer had, without explanation, died a death, or the scanner would only work at a freakishly high resolution, resulting in file sizes too big to email. I tried to resort to faxing information, standing forlornly with my credit card in hand at Kinko's, but none of the fax machines would pick up.

Nothing went smoothly. Anything that could go tits up, soared like a bird. And in the back of my head, while I raced around like a blue-arsed fly swatting at issues in a vain attempt to resolve them, a little voice kept reminding me of all the other things I needed to achieve in order to move home: apply for UK schools, apply for a UK bank account, ship a house full of stuff in 4 weeks time, move into a friend's for a month, plan for Xmas, find a new home for my cats, sell my car, sort out utilities (UK and US), buy and organise delivery and assembly of boy's bedroom furniture for the UK (before we arrive), organise rental furniture until the shipment arrives...oh, and get bloody divorced!

No wonder then that I felt a little overwhelmed. It felt at times that if I didn't physically wrap my hands around my neck that my head would start to spin. I am pretty certain that if I hadn't developed this incredibly attractive habit of gulping like a baby bird desperately trying to swallow a fat earthworm, then I most certainly would be projectile vomiting lurid, green goo while my head repeatedly turned a full 360.

As I said to my sister, I can't cope with all this. I truly can't cope, but what choice do I have? The option of running off, celebrity-like, to a clinic to drink chamomile tea in a perfectly white towelling robe while having my head massaged by a lackey well-paid therapist for a month is not one that I have to take. There is no other choice but to minimise the gulping reflex in public settings to avoid looking like I am losing my tenuous grip on sanity and just get on with it.

Seems so easy when I write it down.

Wednesday morning was time for mediation. I get up at 5am to sort out the previous day's cock-ups with the UK and then start the drive to our appointment. There is nothing civil or pleasant about mediation, I have learned. Medieval torture would be a more accurate description. The thought of sitting across from my husband of 12 years, as adversaries, while we dual the divorce agreement to death, practically brings me out in hives. My stomach is knotted to such a degree that my fail safe gulping mechanism is now a physical impossibility. Just as I am nearing the mediator's office I receive a text from Ex: he can't make mediation, he is sick. I am instantly furious, yet overwhelmingly relieved. The hangman's noose loosens. The gulping technique reinstates itself. Maybe this meeting can be productive after all. At least there is less chance of a bun fight, followed by my hysterical tears.

It ended up being a productive meeting (well, as productive as it could be with only one person there to agree to anything). After a bit of a verbal tussle, I concede on several financial areas, because after arguing the toss for an hour I finally saw the mediator's point of view that It Just Wasn't Worth It. And ultimately I felt quite calm when I headed home.

A couple of hours later the mediator emailed both Ex and I, summerising the discussion and highlighting points of agreement - which Ex immediately responded to with an email stating categorically that he has NOT in fact agreed to the maintenance amount. Which immediately sent me into a tailspin. WHA??? My throat constricted and my head began to spin again. I felt totally sick, couldn't breath, couldn't swallow - just felt stressed to the eyeballs at the thought that he was now going to start fighting me over the maintenance sum - because without it I really can't afford to live in the house we have just rented in the UK.

My knee jerk reaction was to call the mediator and my lawyer and lose the plot, along with the shreds of my remaining dignity. That's It! I fumed. The Final Straw! The @#$&%*@#$. But then I remembered advice that my lawyer had told me several weeks ago: just because Ex says something...it doesn't mean it is so. I fretted all afternoon, sniping exhaustedly at the boys, hanging on by a thread until they were in bed. No wonder they enjoy being with their dad more right now. Their mum is on the verge of being a professional loony-tune - if I can't keep up with my swings in temperament, then how can they be expected to?

I called a friend and let loose, fear gripping my bowels, sobs caught in my throat. I feel like a puppet with no control over my life and know that the time might be approaching where I take a different tack, a more aggressive, offensive approach with Ex. I know I need to calm down and not do anything rash - the world is not coming to an end after all. It all feels monumental, but I know my reactions are hyper-sensitive right now and this constant feeling of being in fight or flight is not going to be the best basis for decision making.

I wake up the next morning (well, when I say 'woke up' that implies I actually had some sleep...maybe it is more accurate to say 'stumbled out of bed in a sleep deprived fog') to a text from Ex. A long text. An unexpected message. The gist of it being - he was sorry. Sorry for not going to mediation. He is going to be fair and not fall out over money. Too many years of happiness. Too much love. Too many years ahead of us. That he is really struggling to deal with the situation, but he will try harder - and we will be fair to each other and the boys.

The world tilted on its axis and swung back around 180 degrees again. I breathed and got on with getting packed lunches ready.

I texted Ex a little later, thanking him for his honesty. And also sharing with him that I too am really struggling. That even after the death of Mack, this feels like the toughest situation we have ever faced. Made even tougher by the fact that, in all the crap over the years, he was always by my side, always my rock. It will be over soon. And then just the memories of the love and happiness will be left. That's what we have to hold on to.

I press 'send', wondering if I have been a little too open. Whether this honesty and expression of vulnerability will ultimately come back to bite me in the arse. I do still love this man, in many, many ways, but it feels a little dangerous to give him a glimpse of that, to expose how I am struggling. I feel a sense of calm that I have put down my weapons and spoken from the heart, but wonder if it will be used in retaliation.

Just then I receive a new text, an instant response from Ex. "Ok - you just made me cry at [global business meeting]...thanks ;-)"

I'm relieved that I let down my guard and feel an overwhelming desire to sleep. My mode of panic, which I have perfected to a degree of professionalism, abates. I'm exhausted but my inner feeling of strength reinstates itself. The next few weeks are going to be hard but I feel a sense of confidence that we can get through it. That we will continue to find a way to draw on the love we once shared to endure all this stress.

Physically I am totally depleted. My body is heavy, yet weightless. I drag myself through the motions of daily life. Yet know with certainty, that This Too Will Pass.

My Friends Think I'm Gorgeous...But 'Computer Says No...'

2010-10-11T19:46:00.001-05:00

So while I was alternatively hibernating or bleating away about my pitiful existence this summer, to anyone who had the patience of a saint to listen, two of my girlfriends came up with a plan.

It wasn’t a particularly brilliant, inspired or original plan, but they succeeded in getting my attention regardless.

“What you need,” they declared knowingly, “is to be wined and dined a little. You need to get out more. Let your hair down. Have fun!”

More specifically, I needed to be wined / dined and to expend a little flirtatious energy with men who had the looks of Pierce Brosnan, the assets of Richard Branson and a Phd in cunnilingus/multiple female orgasm. “Any sane, single man would give his right arm for the chance to go out with you!” my loyal friends assured me. “You’re going to have men queueing up for the chance to take you out to some fancy, schmancy restaurant! C’mon, your confidence could do with a little boost and it’s not like you have anything better to do, is it? What have you got to lose?”

Sounded like a good plan to me. Sign me up! I said. Now, where’s the catch?

Match.com.

There’s the catch. Need I say more?

I wasn’t particularly convinced that a man with the combined attributes of Pierce / Richard / Sting (?!) was going to be advertising himself willingly on Match.com. I’d had the impression that Match.com was purely a euphamism for Freeshag.com...(“well, what’s the problem with that?” said one friend, “after all, it’s about time you had your pipes serviced.”)

When I expressed these concerns to my two girlfriends they duly ran roughshod over my scepticism....”No, No, No - there’s plenty of fantastic, eligible men on Match...look, here’s a photo of one on a boat!” they assured me fervently....and started to write my profile.

And that, my dear friends, is how my first foray into t’internet dating began.

Oh well, I thought a little dubiously, at least it will provide some entertaining blogging fodder if nothing else.

In a matter of days I had created a dating pseudonym, written a half-hearted profile and posted a few pics, including this photograph.

This is, I have to be honest, the most flattering photograph I have probably ever had taken in my whole life (wedding pictures included). It is a miracle of modern digital technology. It caught me in a split micro-second before my facial features morphed back to their typical frown or gormless gaze. Even my most closest friends will attest that unintentional gurning is one of my foremost specialities.

This is going to have all the hot, rich men responding in droves, I thought. No matter that I won’t possibly be able to recreate that look in person - this is the land of false advertising. And anyway, I am going to divert their attention with my effervescent, vivacious personality and pernacious wit! It’s going to be great!

Hmmm.

Now if there was ever one activity designed to well and truly knock my confidence to rock bottom levels this summer - it was my experience with Match.com.

Oh to be sure - I did get a fair number of winks. And even a number of emails. All of whom from men with the combined attributes of Homer Simpson (couch potatoes), Jabba the Hutt (“Weebles wobble...but they don’t fall down”), John Merrick (aesthetically challenged), the Hunchback of Notre Dame (a few handbells short of a full set), the Yorkshire Ripper (serial killer style facial hair) and Sarah Palin (gun toting global ingoramus).

It appeared that the likes of Pierce / Richard / Sting hadn’t yet tracked down my profile, so I decided to give them a helping hand and shoot out a few winks and sardonic, amusing emails of my own.

Which were all IGNORED.

Not one response. Nada. Zip. Zilch. And I know they went on to read my profile and take a look The Most Ridiculously Flattering Photo Of Me Ever Taken, because I checked.

Now to say my self-esteem was in tatters prior to this experience is to put it mildly. And after? Well, it was well and truly incinerated.

Well here is proof positive, I mused. My destiny is a relationship with an overweight, hairy, ugly man who sits on his couch all day cleaning his guns, picking at his beard while agreeing with the latest Glen Beck rants. Either that or I am going to be alone FOREVER. Way to go in cheering me up, girls.

Of course, beggars can’t be choosers, as the saying goes, so I did venture out on four first dates.

The less said about those the better.

Surprise, surprise, there were no fancy dinners in exclusive restaurants. I made an effort to make myself look presentable, only to find each man turn up in baggy, ill-fitting cargo shorts, T shirts, that looked as though they had slept in them, and flip flops. I’m not sure what impression they were aiming to make with that ensemble, but it definitely wasn’t one of, ‘I made a little effort before coming out to meet you tonight’. Of course, looks aren’t everything. I may be shallow, but not that shallow. However, I have to confess I have spent more entertaining hours in the company of my friend’s British Bulldog Louie...and at least with him I am guaranteed of less slobber during the goodnight kiss.

What a spectacular waste of time. And more to the point, what a spectacular waste of $75. Do you realise how many cheap bottles of plonk I could have purchased with that money, to keep me company during my long summer of sitting on the couch feeling sorry for myself? Quite a few, I can tell you that for nothing. Particularly if I had limited my spending to the 3-buck-chuck shelf at Trader Joe’s.

Let’s hope this is not a sign of things to come when I am back on British shores. Surely the dating world can’t be as cruel back at home? I guess on that front, I will just have to wait and see.

In the meantime I will continue to reassure myself that I have, in fact, meet a very interesting guy and no, he does not have the looks of Pierce, the assets of Richard (although potentially he could have a Phd in ‘satisfying women on the sexual front’...).

He is a good friend of Subversive Mum and I met him the first time last Xmas, then again at Easter while on holiday in the UK and most recently while visiting SM at her new home in Brooklyn.

He’s a Brit. Older than me. Shorter than me. Possibly not the least bit interested in me. But I like him. I can’t quite put my finger on where the attraction lies - all I know is that the instant I met him, I liked him. I wanted to spend time with him. We are so very different yet have umpteen things in common.

Maybe he’s going to be a very good friend once I move home. But maybe, it could be something more. Only time will tell.

It might take a while....but I’ll keep you posted.

A Long Hard Summer Of Acceptance (aka if only I had shares in Kleenex)

2010-10-09T11:14:00.000-05:00

The main reason for the lack of blogging activity over the summer was due to sheer exhaustion. Not physical, but mental and emotional. I had lists of posts to write, but when it came to having the time to write after the boys were in bed, more often than not you could have mistaken me for a mannequin lying prone on my sofa - that's the state of stillness I have been perfecting night after night, watching trash TV.

Ex and New Girlfriend are still going strong (I guess 'New' is fairly inaccurate at this point in time, as they have now been together for 10+ months...let's just call her American Girlfriend instead...I am tempted to call her Girlfriend With A Mouthful of Big, Shiny Teeth, but that seems a little facetious verging on bitchy, so I won't). Due to the fact that our long-term babysitter still works for us both, it was impossible to avoid being aware that AG is a constant fixture at Ex's house and was developing a close relationship with our sons.

And this I have really struggled with.

By all accounts she is lovely with the boys and, in the grander scheme of things, I knew I should be really grateful. But understanding you should be grateful and actually being grateful are two very different states of being - the latter being a state of mind I was finding very difficult to achieve.

I want my boys to be happy. I want them to be loved by a myriad of people in their lives. Just not by her. The thought of them sharing 'family' time with their new mum substitute - with her beginning to love them and them beginning to love her - absolutely crushed me. Knowing that it shouldn't... knowing I should just be grateful that the boys were happy and loved...knowing that it didn't take anything away from their love for me as their mother, didn't help a great deal, I have to be honest.

I was wracked with jealousy. I never had any fault with her personally - it was just the situation that felt totally agonising. I felt an overwhelming anger at no longer being the sole mother figure in my sons lives. It was not something that I had ever anticipated when conceiving, carrying and giving birth to them...and in all the sleepless nights that subsequently followed. All that hard, turn-my-life-upside work...all that selfless devotion and self-sacrifice...for my role to be ultimately shared? It didn't seem fair. It wasn't fair. It was hard to look at it from the boys' point of view and acknowledge the benefits it was bringing to their lives, and so much easier to look at it from my point of view and feel so incensed that I just wanted to kill someone. Not her necessarily. Probably him, in all honesty.

How could he? How could he do this to me? I would fume and fester over the injustice of it day after day, night after night. It seemed like such a betrayal. I felt like such a fool. And their togetherness (and happiness) highlighted and exacerbated my own loneliness to a degree that felt intolerable. I was wretched and I was miserable and I was beyond any form of consolation - all because others were happy and moving on with their lives.

It didn't help matters that Ex and AG took the boys on holiday together to visit some of our old friends in Seattle. Yet again the green-eyed monster reared its ugly head. I tried to maintain a note of cheeriness and excitement in my voice when I spoke to the boys on the phone - but my envy towards their 'family' getaway, with our friends, was palpable. And of course, there were the accompanying insecurities. Do our friends like her more than they liked me? Do they see Ex and AG together and think, 'Oh yes, they are so good together...much more suited than Ex and Nicola ever were. And AG is so nice. And pretty. And young. Not old or jaded or cynical at all. It's so obvious why Ex is with her, rather than his unstable, drama-driven, aging wife...'

Friends would sympathise - but would also acknowledge that yes, AG is nice. And she is great with the boys. And the boys seem to have a great relationship with her. And that's a good thing, it really is. But all I could think was, well, that's easy for you to say - and I emphatically agree with you on a theoretical level - yet, I think you might have a completely different point of view if this was happening with YOUR children.

My thoughts and feelings on the matter ultimately reached a tipping point when the boys returned home. We were having a fairy innocuous conversation about girlfriends while I was driving them home after an afternoon at the park. Johnny Drama was having a hard time deciding which girl in his class he should choose to be his girlfriend. In the midst of discussing their various merits, Captain Underpants piped up, "I think I'd like AG to be my girlfriend. She's kind, she's pretty, she plays with me, she's fun. Yeah, I think AG will be my girlfriend, mum. I love her."

How I managed to keep the car on the road while the knife was being driven so swiftly and cleanly through my heart is a true reflection of my superior driving abilities.

On the tip of my tongue was the instant rebuttal: oh yeah? well, I think your father would have something to say about that!

Instead I kept quiet for a minute, listening to JD enthusiastically concur with his brother, before saying, "that's nice sweetheart, I'm sure AG would be very happy to hear you say that". The conversation continued with CU saying, "you know, AG is always there at Daddy's now Mum. It's kinda like I have two mummies now, isn't it? She's like my new mummy now, isn't she? So I have two mums. That's lucky, isn't it? So, you're my mum - and she's also my mum. Right Mum?"

How I managed to keep the tears from flowing at this point, due to the knife being twisted cruelly in my heart, is a testament to the rapid blinking technique I have perfected over the past 2 years. It was on the tip of my tongue to shout, "NO, SHE IS NOT YOUR MUM! I'M YOUR MUM! I'M YOUR MUM!! YOU ONLY HAVE ONE MUM AND SHE IS CURRENTLY USING EVERY OUNCE OF CONCENTRATION NECESSARY NOT TO DRIVE OFF THE FUCKING ROAD...AND DON'T YOU EVER FORGET THAT!" Of course I didn't say that, although my brain was screaming it relentlessly, and I couldn't bring myself to agree with him at that point either. But what I did manage to say was, "well, of course it's great that you have all these people in your life who love you so much, CU - you are very lucky boys."

And once they were in bed, tucked up sound asleep, I sobbed and sobbed, feeling a mix of rage and self-pity. They already think they have 2 mummies? I felt robbed and achingly sad, as if I was on the rocky road to losing them forever to their new, happier, family.

I can see how easy it is for mothers in my position to wish to reek havoc and vengeance on their Ex's and their new partners. Having to share the emotional devotion of your children in these circumstances goes against every primal, lioness instinct. I had always aimed to be magnanimous, gracious and generous as our family shifted shape, but it felt beyond my capabilities to be this way. Holding my dying first born son had been hard. Having a second premature baby had been hard. Going through the breakdown of a marriage away from my family and friends had been hard. And hearing my son profess his love of AG and his acknowledgement of her playing a mothering role in his life was also hard. Just as hard. I felt sideswiped by emotion and struggled not to fall into a pit of depression and self-loathing over my inability to handle the situation with grace and acceptance.

As I said. Not a fun summer. Not a lot that I had the strength to blog about at the time. My energy was directed towards a) not crying constantly and b) not following through with the urge to kill somebody (many days myself).

So it would have been easy, and incredibly satisfying, to hit back. And believe me, I really wanted to. It seemed the quickest and most efficient means of reducing my pain was to pass it on to my Ex and AG. I just wanted the satisfaction of them appreciating what I was going through - and to impact their world to the degree that I felt my world was being impacted by theirs.

But I didn't.

Instead I invited AG to the boy's upcoming birthday parties and decided to face this situation head on - and to muster every ounce of artistic ability I possessed to maintain a veneer of grace, acceptance and generosity. And to put my sons - who I love unconditionally with every single fiber of my being - 100% first.

I also decided to stop participating in the competition I had created between myself and AG. Realising that I was not in competition with her - in age, looks, personality, even over the boys' feelings towards us - fundamentally shifted my perception on our situation. I came to realise that the only person stopping me from being lonely and sad and stuck was me. And until I moved on and faced my biggest fear head on - that AG is potentially the second mother in this family - that I would remain forever stuck and bitter and lonely.

Not that the parties were easy, mind. I faced them both with the requisite smile, talked to AG briefly, introduced her to all the other parents...laughed and smiled in all the right places while I quietly died inside. Then I got into my car - as the boys departed with Ex and AG - and cried my bloody eyes out. For hours. But I did it and I lived. And it really did make the boys happy. And - dare I say it - I quite like AG. She's nothing like me at all. She's really very nice. She appears to be very respectful of me and for that I am truly grateful. It could be worse. She could be worse. I need to count my blessings and make a continued effort to knock my competitive, jealous tendencies into touch where she is concerned - and try to focus my attention on being the best mum that I can be right now.

Luckily for me, the boys and I are the closest we have ever been. While I do still struggle with being a single mum, on many levels, being able to single-handedly parent the boys on a daily basis is becoming easier. I take comfort in the fact that I must be doing something right, because otherwise I am sure Captain Underpants would not have stated so emphatically the other day, "But I don't want to have to leave home to go to college Mum! Do I have to go? I just want to be able to live with you FOREVER!"

Oh my sweet, sweet boys. Oh how I love you. (But you're still leaving home at 18, if I have anything to do with it...it will be for your own good, honest.)

I Almost Don't Want To Chance Fate By Writing This...

2010-10-07T19:53:00.000-05:00

....but it looks as though I am finally coming home.

After a long and arduous summer and a very tumultuous few months, it looks as though the wheels are in motion to move back to the UK.

Can it really be true? I don't dare fully believe it myself. But the fact is that I have found a compact and bijou house to rent in North London (well...more compact than bijou if truth be told) and Ex has agreed to move things forward by co-signing the lease with me and has ponied up the dosh for the deposit and first month's rent. (Forgive all the slang but I am just trying to get back into the swing of things...need to refresh the lingo so I don't stick out like a sore thumb. Innit.)

Now we just have to keep our fingers crossed that the references come through to reflect our status as shining examples as prospective pillars of the community...or else the whole thing could easily go tits up.

But. Assuming they don't. Assuming the tits remain firmly in place, then the house will be rented from 1st November and I can start applying for schools, booking shipping and generally running around like a headless chicken coordinating all the logistical paraphernalia necessary to move home at the end of December.

Fingers crossed for the tits then.

I had to heave a sigh of relief tonight, while eating a culinary masterpiece of fish fingers and mash with the boys. To me, fish of any kind (but especially the grey, tasteless cast-offs that generally comprise your average fish finger) cannot truly be savoured without a liberal dousing of salad cream. I know, I know...not everyone's choice of seafood dressing, but most definitely mine. The same goes for jacket spuds (I almost said baked potato but managed to find the 'right words' just in time...see I'm getting the hang of this). Anyway, I am down to my last thimble of salad cream - so really, the timing couldn't be more perfect.

A Follow Up With Dr Mirth

2010-07-29T20:43:00.001-05:00

It turns out my dermatologist isn't missing his sense of humour gene. Though to be frank, I think his timing is a little off.

At my first visit his approach was professional verging on dour. Despite my ongoing attempts at infantile flippancy he stoically refused to take the bait and crack even the slightest smile. Hey! I wanted to say, as I fixed him with a pointed stare and stabbed him repeatedly in the chest with an index finger...stop being so bloody miserable and at least have the decency to acknowledge my pitiful attempts at wit. I can't claim to be even a distant relative to Noel Coward, but you can't deny my attempts at trying.

By the time my follow up visit rolled around I was a little more preoccupied and a whole lot less cocky. If I had been wearing boots I would have been quaking in them. As it was, I simply sat nervously shivering in my vivid blue paper gown, wholly convinced that my detailed check up was going to reveal a body peppered with melanoma. From the moment I had been diagnosed with melanoma - and particularly since the removal of a significant chunk of skin from my back - I had found umpteen suspicious looking legions which surely signified the beginning of the end. There were multiple moles simply begging to be labelled with the dreaded cancer diagnosis. Okay, so I was totally paranoid and, armed with a little bit of information, had within a matter of weeks morphed into the Internet expert on terminal skin diseases. I knew it was only a matter of time before Dr Dour proved my suspicions to be correct - and that time was now.

So I was a little taken aback when Dr Dour breezed jauntily into the room, took one look at my dejected and forlorn little self sitting hunched in readiness for the worst prognosis, and quipped, "My! Don't you look glamorous all decked out in blue today! Going anywhere special?"

Eh?

Er. Not sure exactly Dr. You tell me. The morgue, potentially?

Taking advantage of the fact that his Dr Dour/Mr Mirth transformation had rendered me temporarily speechless he continued with his flirtatious banter.

"Yep, a strappy pair of heels and you'd have all heads turning today in that outfit. Love the tan, by the way. Out of a bottle I hope...phnar, phnar. So. How have you been? Everything healing nicely? Let's have a little looksy, shall we? Check out Dr Slash'n'Sew's* handiwork."

At this point I went from flummoxed to severely irked faster than a Mclaren F1. Hey! I wanted to say this time...take this seriously you buffoon. I'm dying here. DYING I tell you. And the last thing I need is your pathetic attempt at cheeriness to soften the blow.

Of course, I did no such thing because, despite not being a rocket scientist, I'm still intelligent enough to recognise Karma staring me full on in the face when I see it. Go on Doc. Knock yourself out with your little jokes. Turn the tables on the British smart alec when you get the chance, why don't you? Just do me the favour of cracking on with the little comedy act so we can get straight to the bad news. There's really no amount of bonhomie today that's going to prompt any wisecracks from me when you lay the cards on the table. I'm all out of funny, if you haven't noticed, and have been for a while.

The scar looked fine, apparently. Healing nicely, possibly helped by the fact that the nurse had taken pains not to remove all the stitches a few days before. Dr Mirth grabbed a pair of tweezers and, with a few sharp tugs, deftly detached them from the pieces of skin they were seemingly intent on melding to. "Would you look at that...they almost match your eyes exactly", he commented, as he handed me a few strands of blue twine complete with blood stains and small pieces of skin still attached. "Not sure they would compliment every outfit though, so you're probably best off without them."

Oh for God's sake...let's just get on with it, shall we? Enough with the jolliness. Get your bloody magnifying glass out so we can get on with the process of checking all my other mutated 'beauty spots'. And then just tell me straight...is there a chance I am going to have any skin left?

Turns out there is. Despite some of the moles qualifying as 'vaguely suspicious', none of them warranted the quick 1-2 with a scapel for further inspection. I need to attend 6-monthly skin checks but at present Dr Mirth is convinced I am cancer free and - by taking proper precautions moving forward - can hopefully avoid any further instances of melanoma in the future.

I am so relieved I finally smile and go to great pains to resist the urge of planting a huge thank you smackeroo on his lips. In a final act of gratitude I decide to leave the thwarted attempts at humour to him on this occasion. The unexpected 'all-clear' may warrant a smile - but my ability to laugh about my first brush with the dreaded C word is still a little way off.

* not the most flattering pseudonym for my incredibly kind and experienced surgeon

Happy Birthday To....Ex

2010-07-28T17:27:00.001-05:00

So I am sitting in the midst of birthday preparation chaos - the boys going berserk decorating a card that is bigger than they are - all in honour of their dad's birthday on Friday.

I have orchestrated most of this. Bought fantastic cards. Ordered an original piece of artwork (one of our shared weaknesses). Bought a book on mountain climbing. Have a supermarket's worth of cake decorating paraphernalia on the counter. And I want to feel great about all this. Generous. Thoughtful. Want to encourage the boys to celebrate their dad's birthday and think carefully about how they can make it an extra special day.

So why does this all just serve to make me feel just a little bit...shit?

Part of me just wants to trash it all and just stuff a few dollars into a couple of crap Hallmark cards and be done with it. Repeat the effort that was made for my birthday. But I am above all that, aren't I?

There's no room for silly games and tit for tat in this situation. I love birthdays. I love celebrating birthdays. Always have. Always will. And the habit of trying to make Ex's birthday special is a tough one to break. But more than that I want to show the boys the importance of celebrating other people's birthdays and not just their own - that a little bit of thought and effort on someone elses behalf can really make that person's day.

The irony of the situation is the Ex really doesn't like to celebrate his birthday, being a sort of bah humbug birthday scrooge. He much preferred to celebrate mine. And boy, over the years did he set the bar high.

The first birthday we were together he surprised me with a trip to London to see the musical Rent. Sounds normal enough, doesn't it? Well, Ex was never a man to do things by half. He also invited my sister and closest friends from various parts of the country, hiring a limo to take us all there and back - all as a complete surprise to me of course. It was my first ride in a limo. I think we made quite the impression driving through the busy streets of the west end, swigging champagne like a bunch of chavs. Particularly when we decided to have a competition of who would be the first to do a moonie out of an open window. (Needless to say, the birthday girl didn't win that competition - first prize as always going to my close friend K who had a penchant for getting inebriated and then airing her derriere in public places.)

Subsequent birthdays were no less spectacular. I remember waking up one birthday to find our flat a multi-coloured ribbon present trail. Each different coloured ribbon led to a hidden present. Each ribbon went from room to room, all at different heights, making it impossible to navigate the space without contorting myself over and under the neon bright wrapping tape. I would like to say it was reminiscent of the scene where Catherine Zeta Jones leaps effortlessly over lasers (in the movie that I can't be bothered to google to remember the name of)...but of course, in reality I tripped and stumbled all over the place in a combination of giggles and awe. He went to all that effort for me.

On yet another birthday, the effort to discover my presents was less physical and more intellectually challenging. I was given a heap of small boxes. Well. You can imagine my glee, as I pictured unwrapping a mountain of sparkly things to adorn myself with. Ooh no. His originality took a new turn that year. Each box contained a mixture of scrabble letters. Once I had successfully deciphered the 'code' I was 'rewarded' with the actual present. Some of them silly, some more monumental but all of them chosen with a great deal of thought and love.

There are other examples, but already in writing this and remembering the effort this man made to make my birthdays so very special, this modicum of effort on my part (and the boys) is well deserved. And these feelings of resentment and slight envy are so irrational anyway - it's not as if he is expecting any level of effort (or will possibly even appreciate it).

So happy birthday Ex. Hope it's a good one. Even if you would rather we ignored it altogether.

And I guess looking on the bright side...it's not going to matter if I'm not in the mood for sausage on Friday because the birthday blowjob is no longer in my remit. You see! I am capable of seeing the silver lining.

Down...but not out

2010-07-19T11:44:00.000-05:00

I was waiting for a day to come when I felt perky enough to write a post. You know, relatively upbeat. Cautiously optimistic. But that day is yet to arrive and I can't avoid splurging any longer.

This whole 'heavy veil of sadness' thing seems to be depleting me of everything that I once liked about myself. My energy. The view that my life is always glass half full. Generally being daft. The past four years have been so emotionally trying - and so fucking lonely - that they are causing me to doubt that I will ever be happy and carefree again. Maybe this is just me now forever...morose, needy, exhausted, unable to see and appreciate the blessings even in challenging circumstances. What I would do to turn back time and make different choices, to be able to take a different path than this.

I am just so very, very tired.

I am also so very, very tearful. Constantly. Sometimes in front of the boys even, which I have always managed to avoid in the past. The look of concern on their faces and the touch of their plump hands on my shoulders, around my neck or patting my back do nothing to stem the flow of emotion of course. Bad mummy. Bad, bad mummy. My boys need me to be strong and resourceful and resilient. But I am all out of those traits at the moment. I scrabble about the bottom of my handbag, hoping to find remnants of courage and hope and laughter, but of course all I get for my troubles is a few screwed up chewing gum wrappers and the obligatory raisin.

If only I could just stop feeling so tired.

Mediation finally started nearly 6 weeks ago. And in that time we have managed to attend 2 meetings, both of which were charged with tension, latent hurt and unaddressed anger, on both parts. The 2nd meeting was particularly eventful - featuring a bun fight of such proportions that ex and I were ultimately separated. The main bone of contention being, of course, the date of a move back to the UK. Which, despite our agreement in February, is now not going to take place this summer.

Of course it isn't. How silly of me to ever think he would honour his word?

I can see the sense in the decision. We do need to take time to sort out this divorce. I have nothing to gain in the long run from rushing decisions that will impact my future financial security and parenting responsibilities. And I am trying to let go of the frustration that ex has deliberately stalled on attending mediation to achieve this outcome. The man has a part-time live in girlfriend yet it is still not within his interests to divorce me. I know why he is dragging his heels - and I know I fall pretty low down on his list of priorities. I also know that mediation is unlikely to work simply because he has demonstrated quite clearly that he does not want to find time in his schedule to attend.

Again - I know that none of this is through malicious intent. But it is self-serving. And maybe I need to follow his lead and be a little more self-serving too. Despite all the recent upheavals ex and I are still on speaking terms. We are not friends, but we are friendly. Things are currently amicable. Let's hope they remain that way once I file for divorce. I just don't see another way of finalising this chapter in my life than taking it into my own hands - and making something happen that will hopefully stop this cycle of control and manipulation.

Maybe then the panic attacks will cease. The ability to sleep will return. My loss of appetite will reinstate itself and, with it, the ability to do more than just splod through the motions each day with all the enthusiasm of a eunuch on a quest for a condom. Maybe then I will get to move home.

In the meantime, I did manage to complete one task to cheer myself up. I have sponsored a little girl from Haiti called Lovemy. Isn't that the most incredible name? She is 6 years old. So I finally have a daughter in the family. Hopefully the first of many children from around the world. The boys and I are currently working on our first pack of letters, drawings, photos and postcards to send her. I already feel so much love for this smiling little girl, standing in the dust and the dirt in her clean yet worn sundress and hair braided with the big plastic bobbles that I remember from my own childhood. Her situation certainly puts mine into perspective. I wonder if she will ever understand what a gift she is to my life right now?

A reminder that my life is more than just struggling to officiate the end of a relationship and move home to my family and friends. It is also about new beginnings. And family. And love. Always love.

Happiness Is...

2010-06-05T14:12:00.001-05:00

Happiness is...watching my boys play.

My God, they have the capacity right now to entertain themselves for hours. Now if only they had the ability to playfully entertain themselves in absolute silence, my life would be truly perfect.

But no. The play is generally noisy and exuberant and physical and, did I mention, noisy?

Of course, when we are outside the decibel level is less of an issue. Last Saturday I went with a friend and her 6 year old daughter to Foster Beach in Chicago. Within 23 seconds of hitting the sand the kids were off and playing and that is pretty much the last we saw of them for 3 hours. They built forts and trenches, buried toys, ran through the shallow water, turned cartwheels, chased seagulls, collected feathers, watched kites and made new friends. Captain Underpants played solo for a lot of the time - incredibly content in his own little world while his younger brother scampered around the beach my friend's daughter. There was no sand throwing, toy snatching, whinging or crying.

As I sat on our beach mat, feeding grapes or tortilla chips to cherubic open mouths at approximately 37 second intervals as the kids went swooping past (similar to feeding a nest of tiny birds) I marvelled at their imagination and incessant energy. At their complete and utter joy and satisfaction in running around in minimal clothing, without restriction or guidance or limitation (apart from the obvious: Try Not To Drown Yourselves Please).

I felt really privileged to witness this simple example of truly living in the moment, without a care in the world.

Not that I joined them, mind. Ooh, no. I have waited many a long year to be able to go to the beach and merely be a spectator to the action, rather than elbow deep in grainy, dirty sand (Chicago's beaches are great but they are man-made and the sand isn't the finest) building 20 million sandcastles scheduled for instant destruction. Surely now I have earned the right to simply be a sidelines voyeur? To watch as the games I have painstakingly played with them over the years are now replicated without me?

In the afternoon we drove to a friend's house for a barbecue and as the number of children present multiplied, so did the resulting chaos. You could have landed a jumbo jet on the roof and I don't think we would have noticed, they were making so much noise. Initially I felt a little irritated that the boys were being so boisterous, a reaction that I soon recognised as being caused by embarrassment more than anything else. Why was I getting so tetchy exactly? They weren't being unnecessarily unruly or naughty - they were just being very, very, very LOUD. The shrieks and laughter, chasing dinosaur roars and fleeing screams set my teeth on edge. It was hard to curb the urge to tell them to Calm (the fuck) Down.

Instead of pulling them to one side and hissing at them through clenched teeth to 'play more nicely' (whatever the hell that means) I just let them be. For several hours they barely paused for a breath. They ran and jumped, hollered and laughed while I sat chatting, glugging my lemon drop and gorging on perfectly succulent ribs. It was brilliant. There was no finer example displayed of the sheer joy of the simple act of PLAY. It was a reminder that, despite my current stresses and concerns, my boys are predominantly happy. Irrepressibly happy. Uncontainably happy. And that reminds me to be happy too. Even with all the self-doubt I have over my single parenting skills, it seems to me a reflection that I must be doing something right.

And the bonus? Boy, did they sleep well that night.

Happiness is...an unexpected compliment.

On the Bank Holiday Monday I took the boys to McDonald's for breakfast, as they had been badgering me to go for days. They're not really interested in the food, let's be honest, it's simply an excuse to nab a new toy - even if it is a piece of plastic Happy Meal tat that will be forgotten about by the time they get home. As I am a lightweight in the badgering department I acquiesce and drive them to their favourite McDonald's with a play place.

There is the usual stampede and clamber all over the toy display while I order food, before we all settle down on a row of tall bar stools to eat. I sit in the middle of them and, instead of being their usual ants-in-their-pants fidget bums, they are relatively calm and relaxed. We sit for 5 or 10 minutes, not long really, and I take full advantage of giving them opportune snuggles, kisses and hair ruffles. At one point Captain Underpants smooches into my lap and I squeeze him tight and nuzzle his face and neck. Sod the Egg McMuffin...my boys are far more edible than that McDonald's crap.

Pretty soon they scamper off to the play place and, as I am tidying up the debri from their meal, a man approaches me.

"Excuse me - are they your children?" he asks.

Bit of an odd question, I think, and tell him they are.

"Are they adopted?" he asks me.

Even stranger question, I think. They're not exactly mini-me's but I like to think there's a passing resemblence.

"No - they're my boys", I tell him.

"What a wonderful, loving mom you are." He tells me. "You are so loving to your children. It's not often you see that nowadays. They are very lucky boys to have such a loving mom. Watching you with them has really made my day."

Now you tell me...can you really get a finer compliment than that?

Just as well he hadn't been present 45 minutes earlier when I was screaming, "there will be no trip to McDonald's unless you both quit messing around and get your shoes on Right. This. Second. I'm NOT in the mood to ask you again, I'm telling you right now..."

Not sure he would have been quite so impressed with that familiar episode in our day.

......................................................................

Happiness is not...dwelling on the fact that the boys are currently in Disney with their dad and her - and not me. That's just a bit of a pisser, despite the fact that I am in 5* luxury in Barbados with my friend and her children.

Our Gun Laws Are Strict Enough? I Don't Think So

2010-06-04T10:00:00.000-05:00

I have read with horror about the gun massacre in Cumbria, while sitting on a lounger on an immaculate sandy beach in Barbados with the surf roaring in my ears.

And I read with interest that David Cameron is stating that a knee jerk reaction to the UK's current gun laws is not the answer - that we already have one of the strictest gun policies in the world.

That may be so - but in my experience that hasn't prevented guns being legitimately in the hands of a person who has proved themselves to be a potential threat.

The person I am referring to is my ex step-father.

I lived with him over 25 years ago, at which time he possessed a gun licence for, I believe, two shotguns. They were stored in a gun rack in the bedroom. I don't remember them ever being under lock and key. I don't recall if they were loaded or where the cartridges were, which is probably just as well given my own fragile state of mind at the time.

If I were being kind I might describe this man as being paranoid and delusional. The reality of it was that he was an alcoholic schizophrenic with violent and paedophile tendencies, who terrorised my mother, my sister and I for years. I am grateful now that, in the moments of his deepest drunken rages, he didn't load his guns and kill us all - but I still wouldn't have put it past him at any second of any given day.

In fact the only time a gun was ever brandished in the home as a threat (that I remember) was when I pulled one off the wall and hit him with it. It was in the middle of the night, on one of the many occasions he was beating my mum to a pulp, and seemed to me the quickest and most effective means of getting him to stop. It worked. He left the house and drove off in our family estate to God knows where, careering wildly along the road. Externally the doting family man who adored his step daughters. In reality, a tortured, unhinged madman capable of anything when he'd had a drink.

During my late teenage years I often fantasised about having the courage to use one of his own weapons to kill him - there would have been a certain poetic justice in that action. However, the thought of a life long prison sentence proved to be a sufficient deterrent. Despite my fear and hatred, I still didn't want to sacrifice my own life for his.

Yet now I wonder if he is still a danger to those close to him or society at large. And if he is still a registered gun owner. It sickens me to say that if I ever read he has gone on a rampage and killed either people he knew or complete strangers, it wouldn't surprise me in the least. I believe he lives in Lincoln. I am relieved that I don't.

How many guns are in the hands of people like this in the UK today, I wonder? What action, or series of actions, would it take to make this seemingly social person flip?

In order to prevent people from being a danger to society, can gun laws ever be strict enough?

Not in my mind they can't.

I currently live in an area of Chicago populated predominantly by communities where drugs and guns are commonplace. A young boy was shot dead by a fellow student at the local High School last summer, no more than 100m from my house. The house on the corner, probably 5 doors away, is home to two convicted drug and gun dealers who have just been released from prison after serving their sentences. I am cautious in my neighbourhood and it is certainly not an ideal environment to raise my two boys, yet I am rarely afraid. Maybe I am being naive but I tend to think that if I treat my neighbours with respect that they will return the favour in kind. I also believe that the guns are predominantly used in gang related interactions and, unless I am unfortunate enough to be caught in the cross-fire, we will be safe.

Still. I am cautious. And careful not to create enemies.

As an aside, it would interest me to know the percentage of registered gun owners in the UK who are women. I can't imagine the percentage is high. I understand that men have an inherent instinct to be hunters - yet personally I would ban all gun use and get them to take up kickboxing, or paint balling, or laser tag instead. As I said. I am inherently not a hunter but a nurturer. I am inherently naive. I don't understand the fascination with guns and the desire to use them as sport to hunt wildlife. I am sure it must be thrilling and obviously provides a certain satisfaction - personally, I get that from tracking down my must-have shoes in a 50% off sale.

My choice of deadly weapon will always be the stilletoe heel instead of a bullet. I am sure the death toll would have been a lot less if that had been the case for Derrick Bird.

Jammy Cow

2010-05-31T21:07:00.002-05:00

The day of the 'procedure' arrives. I have a shower and take care doing my make up and straightening my hair. After much deliberation I have decided that I would take up Ex's offer of accompanying me. Who knows...maybe this could be a turning point.

He's arranged to pick me up at 9.30am and is late, as usual. I pace around the house, tying and untying my cobalt blue cardigan, worn to bring out the blue in my eyes. I don't seem to appreciate that I will be having surgery soon. My outfit is carefully chosen. Where on earth do I think I am going? I am dressed for a lunch date, rather than a hatchet appointment at a hospital. I am a fool - but the distraction keeps my mind off the word 'cancer' and 'procedure'. I wonder if he will hold my hand.

He finally arrives and is, as usual, on the phone. At least it is work. I listen to his conversation all the way to the hospital, feeling nervous but for all the wrong reasons. My heart pounds and my chest heaves, with the assistance of my Victoria Secret hold-em-up-and-squeeze-em-together bra. A pretty pathetic attempt to create a cleavage...he knows damn well underneath all the padding it's pretty much two raisins on a ribcage. But this is the closest we have come to having 'a date' for over two years and I am giving it all I've got.

It doesn't seem to make any impression.

Waiting in the reception area we make small talk about mutual friends. I want to bring up the subject of us but now doesn't seem the right time. It never feels like the right time. I'm a little irritated on hearing about his dinner dates with our old neighbours and how well our previously close friends are doing with their newborn. "Oh, she's a natural. Very relaxed." he remarks about a friend's second wife. Is this remark innocent or a well disguised dig? No matter. It smarts. It doesn't occur to me at the time that one of the reasons I was so on edge during our early days as parents was his own intense anxiety. We were such a poor influence on each other. Maybe he will be able to relax and enjoy it a little more the second time around...

Finally I get called in to see the surgeon. I really haven't given much thought to the purpose of this visit and it is only when the Dr starts to discuss the procedure and the nature of melanoma that it strikes me. I have cancer. I listen to his description of melanoma being like a can of paint being thrown at the wall - the main blot of paint is easy to identify - it is the splatter effect which is the problem. Today they are going to remove skin possibly containing 'cancer splatter'. It will take an hour for the lab to provide initial results that they have removed a sufficient surface area and then I will be stitched back together. I start to sweat. I start to regret not wearing waterproof mascara. I start to regret wearing mascara at all. I start to feel a little scared. I think I might even feel a little faint.

Pretty soon I am lying down wearing the requisite paper gown, my back being stabbed with numbing juice, the skin soaked in sterilizing solution. The Dr starts to slice away and, whilst I can't feel any pain, I can almost feel pieces of myself being removed. Warm blood trickles down from the incision and I feel the nurses wiping it away. It seems to take forever. Although I am lying down I still feel lightheaded, as though I am going to faint. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Just don't pass out, you big nelly. Think of small children having life saving brain surgery. Blogging friends who have undergone mastectomies and chemo. This is Nothing in comparison. Stop being such a bloody wimp.

The next thing I know I get an electric shock, which sparks out of the end of my right index fingers. "What the...!" I exclaim. "Sorry," apologises the surgeon, "maybe you have created a short circuit touching the metal under the bed. Bring your hands up by your head." I bend my elbows and place my hands under my head, a little tense at this point, it has to be said. "JEEZ!" I laugh as his next attempt to cauterise the skin produces an electric shock which sparks out of my left elbow. "What's happening?". We remove my watch, while the surgeon reassures me again and again that, in over 10,000 procedures, he has never seen this happen before. "Yeh, well. I've been told I have a very magnetic personality." I tell him. Thankfully it doesn't happen again - although now that I know they are burning the end of my blood vessels to minimise the bleeding I go back to feeling a little lightheaded. The smell doesn't help. Bacon, anyone?

After what seems to be a lifetime, but in reality is probably only 45 minutes, the surgeon leaves the room and the nurse patches me up for my hour wait before I get stitched back together. "Go and grab some lunch" she suggests. I stand there in my gown and start to cry. I can't stop. This whole thing is so grotesque and so unexpected - and so reminiscent of days gone by, when I was in and out of hospital during my pregnancies. My un-waterproof mascara starts to trail down my face and a combination of tears and snot drip onto my lips. Lunch? I can't think of anything less appealing right now.

I stumble out into the waiting room, still crying, and Ex gives me a lacklustre, tentative hug. We go over the road to the ubiquitous Starbucks and I have a coffee. Ex continues to make small talk but I no longer have any enthusiasm for meaningless conversation. Is this really what we have come to? Trying to compare notes on friends we have in common? The hole in my back aches and is echoed in my chest. I want him to hold my hand. I want him to look at me with concern and love. It's not going to happen. It's nice that he volunteered to come with me, as a friend, but I no longer have the energy to put on a brave face in his presence. I'm exhausted and know that this is the moment that I really have to let go and accept this relationship on the basis that he is comfortable. It feels anything but comfortable to me.

Finally I return and get called back into the surgery. Good news. Initial results are good and they appear to have removed it all. I should feel relieved but all my senses appear to be numbed by the anaesthetic. I lie back down to be re-cauterised and stitched back together. This is the part I have been dreading the most. I don't feel any pain but there is still the oddest sensation. It takes nearly an hour for them to re-attach the skin with nearly 40 stitches - and the whole time my body shakes with sobs. I cry for Mack. I cry for Ex. I cry with the memories that are nearly 8 years old, but that seem as fresh as the wound that has just been inflicted. I wish it was as easy to sew my life back together. I feel as vulnerable and alone as I have ever felt.

Finally it is all done and I am able to leave. I still can't stop crying. Ex re-attempts the awkward hug but I fold into myself. He is no longer my soft place to fall. We part ways quickly at the exit as it is almost pick up time at school and he has the boys tonight. I get into a cab and sob into my cobalt blue cardigan all the way home. The last thing I want is to be returning to an empty house. I want to see my boys. I want to be somewhere I can feel looked after. I feel frightened as I grip my bag of meds and ointments and care instructions. Who is there to care for me? What if something happens? I don't want to be alone.

My paranoia continues through the evening but, miraculously, I get a good night's sleep and I wake in sheets that are still clean and not sticky with pints of fresh blood. Well, that must be a good sign, I think. I get up and plan an active day, but within 2 hours I am back in bed, exhausted, and sleep for another 5 hours. It takes at least 4 days for me to feel back to normal and physically able to be in charge of the boys without suffering a panic attack every 37 seconds. Ex doesn't call to see how I am for the first 48 hours, despite seeing me like a pathetic wet rag after the surgery. This, to me, speaks volumes. Time to cauterise that particular wound once and for all and move on. Time to really start to heal.

A couple of days later I agree that Ex can take the boys to Disney on the previously aborted trip. Within a matter of hours a friend casually suggests that I accompany her on a freebie trip to a 5* resort in Barbados for 6 days. Her husband has a work commitment that he can't get out of. I hesitate for a couple of days, although for the life of me I can't think why. A free holiday? To Barbados? 5*? When has anyone ever made me such an offer? Finally I come to my senses and tell her I would love to go. It coincides with the boy's Disney trip, so is perfect timing. Within a matter of minutes my flight is booked.

How very jammy is that?

I am hereby to be known as The Queen of All Jammy Things. The Jammiest Cow in town.

MOOOOOO.

I am off to Barbados tomorrow, in fact. I have packed all manner of flouncy and skimpy things. Oh. And SPF 55 of course. As getting a tan is out of the question, I guess I will just have to sit under an umbrella sipping cocktails, pickling my liver.

It's a hard life.

And turns out, I am not so lonely after all.

It's Quite Scary How Well She Knows Me

2010-05-26T18:17:00.000-05:00

So I had quite the most brilliant idea the other day. I am looking for a place in North London...my sister is looking for a place in North London. We are both a bit short of money but could afford somewhere decent verging on almost spacious if we shared...it's just an obvious match made in heaven, isn't it?

Well I thought so.

So I called her and asked her. She was a little...er...evasive on the phone. And then a little later I received the following in an email. I read the first scenario with a big smile on my face...which soon turned into guffaws of laughter when I read the second.

Oh dear. She really does know me and the boys far too well. (By the way, for the following to make sense I ought to tell you that her nickname for me is Mergatroid and mine for her is Lurgatroid - it must be all the antibiotics and pain meds because I can't for the life of me remember why).

Scenario No. 1.

Mon: Good day at work. Had a bite to eat with colleague before heading to the Zohar class. Got home at 10pm, Mergatroid on couch with glass of wine, boys in bed. Told Merg all about Very Attractive Man at Kabbalah Centre. Merg told me all about Hot Downstairs Neighbour.

Tues: Another good day at work - seriously, I would do this for free if I could live on air. Got home at 6:30, started cooking chicken curry whilst Merg bathed the boys. They read their bedtime story to me and told me about their new friends. Poured some pear vodka which I snorted through my nose when Merg told me what Johnny Drama had said that afternoon.

Weds: Another good day at work. Went to Yoga class afterwards, then to astrology class at K Centre. Was invited out for coffee at weekend by Very Attractive Man (VAM). Got home at 10, ate a ton of dips and watched some crap TV. Couldn't sleep. Too excited.

Thurs: Seriously, they are paying me to do this? Got home early, helped put the boys to bed after they had done a fantastic job of clearing away their toys, whilst Merg rustled up some excellent nibbles for Book Club. Drank lots of vodka and talked about the finer points of foreskins. Laughed until my stomach hurt.

Friday: Slight hangover. Work good again. By some major miracle, boys with Ex for weekend so met Merg at K Centre for Shabbat at 7:30 followed by first meal. Home at 11:30pm. Merg then tells me that VAM rang the house and that she answered and he thought she was me. Apparently I am meeting with VAM on Sunday for coffee. He originally said Saturday after shabbat, but Merg changed the place and time, re: The Rules. Fantastic. Not sure I would have had the strength.

Saturday: Arrived at K Centre at 9:30 to help prepare Shabbat lunch, which finished at 3pm. Went home for a snooze. Rented a DVD, Merg and I curled up on the sofa and had quiet night in, comparing the bums and chests of every single man that had passed through the Kabbalah Centre.

Sunday: Nice lie in, mooched about in jim jams. Did a spot of housework and laundry. Went for coffee with VAM. Think it could be love. No, honestly. Had a nice wander in Highgate Woods. Merg got us invited to Hot Downstairs Neighbour's barbecue, who an eye for Merg and is great with the boys. Really nice guy, to boot, I think she's in there... ;o)

Monday: Skipped to the tube filled with joy and love....

Scenario 2:

Monday: Good day at work, although not too sure that colleagues were impressed with the cat hair and streaming eyes. Had to have a lie down at the back of Starbucks before heading to Zohar class. People think I have fleas. Got home at 10pm, Mergatroid stomps down the stairs after sending Johnny Drama back to bed for the fifth time, downs a glass of vodka and asks whether it is really too much to ask to get a decent evening without any interruptions. I think she is talking about the boys. At least, I hope she is talking about the boys.

Tuesday: Got to work late after cleaning the boys breakfast off the walls and floor whilst Merg went upstairs to get changed for the second time. Got home early and went to cook the dinner, but was seconded to putting the boys to bed as Merg was "sick to death of the sight of them". Merg got pissed on vodka in the space of half an hour. Had indigestion by the time dinner was ready. Trod on some cat sick in my socks. Nice.

Wednesday: Woke up to the sound of the boys gently fighting on the landing. Got scalded in the shower when one of them thought it would be funny to flush the loo - twice. Discovered at the last minute that Bert the cat had thrown up all over my yoga kit, which put the kibosh on that idea. Spent ten minutes rubbing cat hair from my clothes, but still managed to sneeze my way through an entire meeting (and one of these was a snot sneeze, in front of the MD). Antihistamines not working. Decided to skip the astrology class. Arrived home to living room turned upside down, the boys playing battle games. Tried to skulk off to my room for a bit of peace, but they followed me there. Ended up shouting at them and they both ended up in tears. Bad Auntie.

Thursday: Woke up unable to breathe and with face on fire, and discovered a large patch of cat hair on my pillow. The boys thought it might be funny to let Ernie in to my room 'because he likes me'. Went to work with a blotchy red face, my left eyeball hanging out and wheezing like an accordian. Got home late, with a headache, and the boys still up, driving Merg crazy whilst she tried to entertain her Book Club guests. Nobody in Book Club could look at me because my eyeball was hanging out. Sloped off to my room and found Bertie hiding under the bed. It took ten full minutes to coax him out, but which time Ernie had snuck in to escape the ensuing chaos downstairs. Went to sleep to the sound of raucous screams as the Book Club ladies discussed the finer points of foreskins.

Friday: Soaked my head in a bucket of cold water to ease the allergic reaction, but still looked like Elephant Woman. Trod on one of those fucking sharp little shitty bits of Lego that Captain Underpants had dropped on the stairs. Went to make a cup of tea, but no clean cups due to book club last night (where cups of coffee were consumed in a futile attempt to sober up). Went to shabbat, was chatted up by a fat bloke who doesn't have an allergy to cats, but who had developed a really nasty skin condition on his thighs, apparently, which he thought was somehow similar. Great. Spotted a Very Attractive Man across the room, who looked in to my gummy eyes for a split second before wincing and turning away.

Saturday: Went to shabbat, but skipped second and third meal because the house is a complete tip and is full of cat hair. Spent the afternoon tidying up and defurring everything. Stopped itching at around 4pm, after overdosing on antihistamine. Hoping that taking four tablets at once isn't going to kill me. House stayed tidy until the boys came home half an hour later. Must find effective method of hoovering cats. Wanted to watch some TV and for the boys to play in their room just for a bit of space, but nothing doing. Hid in room and googled "legal small child restraints UK" and scanned hopefully through 37,300 results for seat belts.

Sunday: Was woken up at 6am and despite ear plugs and pillow over head, could not get back to sleep. Made some coffee and returned to room. Merg also hiding in room. We hid together. Whilst the boys trashed the house. Finally braved it and did some washing, remembering to de-fluff the washing machine beforehand. Clothes still full of cat hair but at least it is clean cat hair. Got a phone call from fat man inviting me for coffee, and told me at the same time that he had a severe nut allergy and therefore couldn't possibly risk Starbucks. Or Costa. Or AMT. Or actually any coffee shops, so maybe I could join him for a glass of water in an antiseptic environment. Thought about nice ways to say no, but then decided that the best deterrent would be to invite him round here for half an hour. He lasted five minutes. Hot Downstairs Neighbour had a barbecue today, and came round to ask if we could 'keep the noise down for just five minutes because it sounds as though the flat is being rented to a herd of fucking elephants'. Merg not happy. Tried to watch rented DVD in evening and failed. Resorted to vodka.

Monday: Oh fuck, is it Monday already?

So I am still looking for a possible flat mate. Any offers? The cat hair is thrown in at no extra charge.

Rubber Band

2010-05-14T21:18:00.000-05:00

So I can't help hoping that I am a Rubber Band Girl...that I get bent and stretched to capacity but ultimately that I just twang back into shape. Also digging the strait jacket at the end of the video. That would have come in plenty handy this week - although I think I am in need of a mental strait jacket to stop my mind whirling all over the place, going to places that I would prefer not to go right now.

Odd how a medical diagnosis - even one as optimistic as mine - can create both emotional clarity and chaos.

My first instinct and desire is to be with my husband. For after all, he is still my husband. I have dealt with every significant event for the past 13 years with him...and believe me, we have had our fair share of them. There is noone else that I would rather have at my side right now.

And he has offered to be there.

But he will still go home to his girlfriend. So do I take up the offer, as well-intended as it is, or not? Could this possibly be a situation that could pull us back together? Or am I just too vulnerable to think straight right now?

I want to share with him how I really feel. Lay it on the line, once on for all. After all - what's the worse that can happen? We are already separated. He already shares his life with a girlfriend. If the status quo remains then my position is unchanged and maybe I can truly move on.

This has not been solely prompted by skin cancer diagnosis. There have been three other influences recently which have caused me to wonder if he is reconsidering our relationship. So is he? Surely there is only one way to find out...to bare my soul?

I haven't up to this point. I have tried to appear strong and funny and sexy and 'OK' - all the right ingredients to tempt him back, right? Make him realise what he is missing. Get him to ditch the American tart (no offence...I am sure you are a lovely girl and a super nice human being) for the simple reason that she just isn't me.

Life is too short to play games, isn't it?

Mind you, I'm not too good at games. I once locked myself in the toilet for 45 minutes in a sulk at a dinner party because I was losing at Monopoly.

Shame the game of life isn't proving to be any easier.

Or that I am still not capable of growing up and not getting into a big, fat sulk when I am on the losing end.

Turns Out The Dermatologist Is Having The Last Laugh

2010-05-12T20:31:00.001-05:00

Being a SAHM you would think my week evolves around trips to the gym, lunching with lady friends, doing a spot of shopping and having time to be on top of Everything.

Why this is NEVER the case is something that irks me greatly.

This week my calendar was empty of all commitments and chores. Yet still by Monday lunchtime I had managed to crack a tooth (task 1: book and attend dentist appointment), the brake lights on my car decided to remain permanently illuminated (task 2: get treated like a complete nelly at the local garage and be without the use of my car for a whole day) and my wireless router took a personal dislike to my computer (task 3: beg my computer literate friend to come and kick it into touch...although hopefully not too literally because then this would lead to task 4: buy new wireless router).

Last week was just as joyful, including a trip to a dermatologist to check out a dodgy mole on my back, that my primary doctor had spotted some weeks ago.

I'm not a great one for doctors or hospitals. And to be honest, I contemplated ignoring my doctor's advice because I'm not the biggest fan of spending $20 to park downtown, then wait around in a doctor's surgery all day only to find out that everything is, in fact, hunky dory. Not when, in my dream life, I could be mincing about in front of a mirror, dressed head to toe in Lycra waving a couple of 5lb dumbbells over my head or spending a couple of hours moaning about my life with someone - in person - while stuffing my face with $20 worth of Sushi. Let me tell you something for nothing: if I am going to be spending $20 that I really don't have, then Sushi is going to win hands down every time.

I couldn't even see this mole (and Lord knows, I tried all sorts of ridiculous contortionist type attempts to track the bloody thing down). Therefore, I wasn't entirely convinced it even existed. And my body is completely littered with moles (I personally prefer to call them Beauty Spots...and if beauty is ever judged by the number of moles then it is patently obvious that I am very beautiful indeed) so why was this one deserving of extra special attention? The one I couldn't even admire with the use of a 3-way mirror?

Ultimately, of course, I booked an appointment because it did represent a day out (of sorts). And it's one more rational justification for why I am never on top of Anything in my life.

Within half an hour of arriving at the surgery I am sitting on the obligatory sheet of noisy parchment paper in a fetching peacock blue paper gown, gazing at rows and rows of pamphlets on every skin disease known to man (and possibly some known to aliens, judging by the photos).

I spend a few minutes picking at my nails. I contemplate the state of my hairy, pale legs in quiet disgust. I start to look in detail at the plethora of Beauty Spots adorning my arms until I go cross-eyed. Ultimately, there is nothing else for it but to peruse the damn pamphlets, purely for reassurance purposes.

I start off with the skins diseases featuring the most obscure names. Far be it from me to pass up an opportunity to educate myself. After all, knowledge is power. Apparently. Each accompanying photograph is graphically hideous and yet strangely comforting. My skin, in comparison, is remarkable in its perfection. Eventually I pick up the leaflet I have been consciously ignoring: Melanoma. One interesting fact catches my eye; Melanoma is more prevalent in people who have over 50 moles on the body. 50? That's a big number. I'm pretty sure I don't have anywhere near 50 moles. I start to count the moles on my left arm and stop when I reach 62 at some point half way up. Oh. Well. I'm sure it doesn't mean anything.

Just as I am replacing the leaflet in the rack, the doctor walks in. Male. Youngish. Fairly good looking. Oh hellllooo, I think to myself. This appointment might be enjoyable after all. I bat my eyelashes at him coquettishly while we have an introductory chit-chat. I'm trying to remember if there is a suspect mole on my boob that he really ought to take a close look at, while I'm there. Purely for medical purposes, of course. I know for a fact there is one in my bikini region but, given the fact that the bush is in desperate need of a prune, I'm thinking I'll give that one a miss this time round.

He opens my gown and starts to look closely at my back.

"So, where did you grow up? Where's the accent from?" he enquires.

"Oh, England."

"Hmmm. And do you remember getting sunburned as a child?"

"Well...I grew up in England..." I deadpan.

"Yes, but do you remember getting sun burnt as a child? What about on vacation?" he continues, ignoring my facetiousness.

"Not typically a great deal of sun in Scotland..."

The doctor is obviously not a huge fan of irony. He continues to prod about on my back with one hand, while handing me a leaflet outlining the ABCDs of identifying melanoma with the other. It is the C he is concerned about. My mole is apparently pitch black, which is not a good colour. He asks me if I remember using sunscreen as a child.

"Well, only if baby oil counts as sunscreen. Or cocoa butter lotion. I'm not even sure sunscreen was invented when I was a child. Have you seen my date of birth? Did they even have sunscreen in the dark ages?"

I can tell my constant stab at flippancy is starting to piss him off a little, but I just can't help myself. For goodness sake - I grew up in England, in the 70s. Of course, I didn't use sunscreen as a child. Did anyone? And can that really be my responsibility now? I have used sunscreen pretty diligently since I was about 19 and went on my first holiday abroad, to Corfu. But certainly have no memory of my mother slavering lotion of any description on our exposed skin during the summer months. Apart from the heat wave of '77, there seemed little point at the time I suppose.

"Right. Well, I recommend that I remove this mole and biopsy it. I should get results back in the next week. Just to be sure there is nothing to worry about."

"You're going to remove it now? Like, right now? I don't even get the time to go home, lose a bit of sleep over the next few nights, and possibly even a few pounds, with the anxiety of it all? You're not going to give me the opportunity to come back and moan about having to pay another $20 to park for an hour? Are you sure?" I laugh as I attempt to banter with him. He still doesn't seem to be appreciating my light hearted wit. I obviously need to try just a little bit harder.

"There's a choice of two different procedures I can use to remove the mole..." which he goes on to explain. Both of which make my knees start to go a bit googly. Did I mention I'm not really good with hospitals? "Is there one which you would prefer me to use? The second one might leave slightly more scarring."

"Hmmm. Choices. Choices. Well, I guess as my Sports Illustrated calendar days are behind me I'm not sure the scarring is an issue. Do you have a preference? I mean, feel free to knock yourself out if there's one you need to practice more than the other...it's not as if I'm even going to be able to see your handiwork anyway."

I begin to sense I have stretched his patience to the limit. I'm really not trying to be rude, I just don't want it to be so serious. If I continue to treat it like it's nothing, then of course, it will be nothing.

The doctor tells me he is going to slice the mole off, which sounds perfectly disgusting, and leaves the room. I sit there in my doctor-appropriate knickers (full cheek coverage) and blue paper gown, feeling a little bit nauseous. Scalpels. Blood. Not really my cup of tea at 11am on a Tuesday morning. I begin to think that I might want my mum.

Eventually the nurse comes in and sticks a needle in my back. As I lie down a lock of hair falls over my face. Oh good. I can be distracted by counting my split ends. Within minutes the procedure is done and the offending black blob is floating whimsically in a jar of saline. Thank God that's over. The doctor reminds me that the results should be back in a week or so and turns to leave.

"Er...excuse me? Don't I get a sticker??" I call after him. My last pathetic attempt to get him to smile, at the very least. He closes the door behind him, without responding. The nurse grins at me. "Well, I'm hoping you have a Star Wars band aid for me, at the very least" I say, giving her a mock stern look.

I get on with the rest of my scintillating week, far too preoccupied with matters concerning Divorce and Transatlantic Move to spare any for biopsy results. In a moment of despair I do think, bitterly, 'well, I do hope it is fucking cancer - then he'll have to let me go bloody home'.

Which I guess is a lesson to be careful what you wish for. The doctor called with the biopsy results yesterday and confirmed that it is melanoma. Skin cancer. He thinks it is localised. He thinks it has been caught in the early stages. I'm booked for surgery next week to remove more skin from the original site and need to have my whole body closely examined for further suspicious Beauty Spots to biopsy. (Fact: If they need to remove every mole on my body, then there's not going to be a lot of me left.)

I'm sure it's all going to be fine. I'm sure I don't have anything to worry about. But it's still a little unnerving. And trust me to piss off the doctor that diagnoses me with cancer. Mind you, I'm still hoping the surgeon next week has a soft spot for smart alec's, coupled with an appreciation for irreverent cancer jokes. Would that really be too much to ask?

Will This Boring, Whinging Story Line Ever End?

2010-05-11T13:06:00.000-05:00

I am so sick of my situation. Sick of thinking about it. Sick of living it. I am alternatively sad, nostalgic, hopeful, angry, terrified, lonely and guilt-ridden.

But most of all I feel pathetic. And utterly exhausted. Not a good combination.

It's hard to see an end to it all. The past four years of my life have been pretty much dominated by the failure of my marriage - and still it drags on. Will it ever end? I can't even imagine how weightless I am going to feel when I am finally able to leave all this behind me and just move on. And yet. Part of me clings on with my fingertips...unwilling to let go of the life that I created with this man. Unwilling to admit that the dreams are no more. That everything I strived and worked so hard for has crumbled away to dust. Mere memories.

How much easier it was, pre-kids, to just walk away and never look back. To have time to grieve and get over it without having the emotional scab constantly picked at by this daily contact. To not have to face the harsh reality of watching the person that you once loved - still love - moving on...and taking your children with them into their new life.

Not that he is trying to make things easier for me. Well, why would he?

We still haven't managed to talk further about the move home. Last week's 'reason' was an important pitch. This week there is a global think-tank. Of course there will be something next week...there is always something more pressing, which has more priority, than sorting out this godawful mess.

I don't really blame him. In my heart of hearts I don't want to face it either. The thought of having to go through the process of the divorce hardly fills me with gleeful anticipation. But I have to face the fact it is in his best interests not to move forward - the longer he can (intentionally or otherwise) drag this out, the less he has to pay me and the longer his sons stay in Chicago.

Sounds so simple writing this down...it's down to me so I just need to keep pushing, pushing, pushing until it's DONE. Not so easy, though, for a woman who considers herself a little bit feisty and far too opinionated for her own good...yet hates confrontation. Throughout this whole nightmare I have strived to be reasonable and rational. To maintain a sense of love and gratitude. To be patient and accommodating. I certainly don't regret it - it has meant that we are incredibly amicable and that does make my life a whole lot easier.

Well, it did.

Now. Not so much.

Looking at it objectively, I would say it certainly makes his life a whole lot easier but my life actually feels far from easy.

I feel so torn between wanting to honour our marriage, the love we once shared, the three children we had together by continuing to be kind, understanding, generous. I know it will reap benefits in the years to come as we continue to co-parent our children together. But at the same time, I'm not sure that he actually respects this behaviour or is simply taking full advantage of it. He has his amazing career, his marathon running hobby, his pretty young girlfriend, his children as and when it suits him and full control of the money. There is nothing about this arrangement that he wants to change right now.

Part of me knows that to achieve what I really want - to regain my independence and move home as soon as possible - the most effective method is possibly to remain humble and gracious and ruffle his feathers as little as possible.

I can see the logic of it - but even writing it just brings on fresh tears. Just where am I meant to find the strength to carry on? It all hurts too fucking much. It would give me so much more satisfaction, at this moment in time, to tell him to stop dicking me around and get with the programme, or I will take matters into my own hands. What is the point of mediation, if he can't prioritise his life a little to make an appointment and show up? We've only been talking about it since February, for heaven's sake.

So here's my dilemna: how to be strong and push forward with intelligence and dignity...without morphing into the quintessential ex-wife bitch.

The pathetic sap of a wife I have a handle on.

The ball-breaking ex-wife I think could come quite easily to me.

I don't want to be either. Is there really an alternative? One that will finally - finally - get the job done.

His Thoughtfulness Stuns Me

2010-05-06T16:31:00.000-05:00

Captain Underpants and I were having a quiet moment together in the kitchen last week, while I was making my usual pitiful attempt at rustling up something vaguely edible for dinner.

I was a little pre-occupied...lots of muttering under my breath while repetitiously opening and shutting the fridge and various cupboards in search of an elusive ingredient that might magically inspire a complete meal. In between the huffing and puffing and general tutting I endeavored to answer Captain Underpants Questions of the Day. The subjects ranged widely from "why is it possible to eat carrots raw but not potatoes when they are both vegetables and have both grown in the ground?" to "if Jet Ray has a battle with Luke Skywalker, who do you think would win?"

I consider all of my answers thoughtfully. I know from experience that my 6 year old revels in having his questions answered with a certain level of brevity and seriousness, regardless of how far-fetched and winsome he is being.

Then one of his questions stops me in my tracks.

"Mummy, when will I have another daddy?"

I pause and try to gather my thoughts, knowing that it's important that I don't try to fob him off with a flippant reply. But what to say?

"Darling, why do you think you're going to have another daddy? You have your wonderful daddy, don't you? And he loves you and sees you all the time and he will always be there for you. Daddy will always, always be your daddy - even when you are all grown up. Just like my daddy, Grandad Bagpipes and daddy's daddy, Grandad Chelsea. They're our daddies forever - just like yours is."

My thoughtful child considers my answer before replying, quite lightheartedly:

"I know I have my daddy forever. What I meant was...when am I going to get another daddy? You know, a daddy that will be here for me every day? The daddy that is here to love you and look after you, mummy? That's the daddy I am talking about. Another daddy. The daddy that is here for you."

He gives me a big smile. His expression is open and innocent...and totally filled with love.

Oh.

I am so stunned by his words 'to love you and look after you' that I can't speak. I go up and give him a hug and a kiss.

"I don't know the answer to that question, sweetheart. But it is a really great question and I am glad you asked me. Right now I have lots of friends and family that love me and help to look after me - and you and your brother too. Including your daddy. I'm very, very lucky. Maybe one day things will be different, but I can't tell you when because I just don't know myself. Is that okay?"

"Okay.

Mummy, how come all cats look quite the same and never get taken for walks...but dogs can be very small or very big and they all get to go out on a lead? And are we going to get a dog? You said we had to wait to get a dog until Johnny Drama was four - but he is over four and a half now, isn't he?"

Questions of the Day continues on somewhat safer footing.

But our conversation stays with me for days afterwards. I'd hate to think that the responsibility of looking after me is weighing on his mind. Maybe it's the fact that he is enjoying weekends with his dad and his girlfriend - and wants to replicate something similar at home? It could be he is simply processing the fact that both Ex and I effectively have two sets of parents each - as both of our parents are divorced and with other partners. It's possibly a combination of all these factors.

To a six year old the future is so simple. Hey! Let's get another daddy to live here with us! That would be great, wouldn't it?!

I still can't see it myself. But in an ideal world...that would be great, wouldn't it?

Gonna Par-dee Like It's Ma (6 Year Old's) Buffday

2010-04-29T13:31:00.001-05:00

So it was my birthday. For once, this auspicious occasion is one I would have quite happily ignored. Except when you have a 4 and 6 year old in the house, with a penchant for cake, balloons, parties and more cake, it turns out that sticking one's head in the sand regarding the ugly truth of the passage of time, is not an option.

Most of the time I am a complete birthday freak. Or is that just cake freak? Whatever. Any excuse for a celebration is typically my motto. Particularly if that celebration revolves around yours truly. This year was a first, because I actually had no interest in it whatsoever. If I could have slept the whole day through and missed it altogether, I would have in a heart beat. But as I said, according to Captain Underpants and Johnny Drama, that definitely was not an option. As soon as the calendar hit April I was pestered daily with requests for details on who, exactly, was going to come to the party and, more urgently, what type of cake was going to be served? So in order to pacify the boys I invited a few friends over, with their kids, for a spot of birthday tea. And cake, of course. Heaven help me if I had forgotten the cake.

One unexpected surprise, as the Big Day approached, was that my dear friend from London was actually going to be in Chicago (due to the fact that she was stranded and unable to return home because of that pesky volcano business). This made the whole idea of the birthday slightly more tolerable.

The night before my birthday (which was on a Saturday) was surprisingly pleasant. My beloved babysitter (who is a fully paid up member of my default family) came over with cake, neighbours popped by, I unscrewed some cheap plonk and the adults took refuge in the kitchen whilst the children rampaged through the rest of the house, scattering boxes of toys in their wake. Whilst happily chatting away in the kitchen, I received a text from Ex (who was attending a week long conference in DisneyWorld, of all places). "What do you think about the boys coming down to join me here next weekend?"

This simple text completely took the wind out of my sails. Disney? Without me? NO! Taking the boys to Disney has been a dream of mine for the past few years. My dream. Not his. And no doubt New Girlfriend would be joining them - slotting neatly into the space that should be mine, Goddammit.

I stewed over the text for hours and then all through the night. This is so unfair, I fumed. I didn't want to deny my boys a trip to Disney and I knew that Ex was simply taking advantage of his privileged work situation. All the other wives and kids would be there - why should his boys miss out? But then again, why should I? Could I bear it if they went for the first time without me? And what did it really say about me as a person and a parent if I wasn't able to put the boys interests first?

Yet again, I wrestled with violent, angry thoughts all night long. My sleep was further interrupted by Johnny Drama coming into my room at 12.59am and then again at 3.47am, needing to be put back to bed. By the time morning rolled around I was exhausted and even more furious about the whole situation. Happy Fucking Birthday, I muttered to myself, as I struggled out of bed at 6am to meet the boy's demands for snacks and my body's demand for an urgent caffeine fix. This part of single parenting I am really not a huge fan of. The 'having to do it all' even on my birthday, without assistance. It's bad enough on the best of days, but on your birthday it's just pants.

My bad mood intensified when I opened the cards from the boys - no special hand-made cards for me this year. Just a couple of hastily bought identical pieces of crap from Hallmark with their names scribbled inside. There weren't even badges for Chrissake. This lack of thought and affection really brought it home to me how little Ex cared and how much he had moved on. Inside one of the cards was $60. There were no other presents for the boys to help me open. I guess it was better than nothing but I still felt distinctly insignificant. "Wow - $60! You can buy a lot of Lego with that mum!" exclaimed Captain Underpants. And he was right - it could buy 'me' a shit load of Lego but wasn't going to go very far in providing my dream splurge at Anthropology, was it? A T shirt perhaps? Oh, how the mighty have fallen. I struggled to feel grateful that Ex had made any effort at all.

The morning progressed as most Saturdays do, the boys acting up due to a bad nights sleep and mum acting worse due to that and more besides. We went out to buy boxes of expensive cupcakes for the afternoon 'party' and I returned to the house with fresh eyes, furious at the mess that greeted me. I had an hour to prepare food before people started arriving and the house looked like a bomb had hit it. This is NOT how birthdays are supposed to be, I fumed internally, whilst scrabbling around on the floor picking up minuscule pieces of abandoned Lego. I was so locked in my black thoughts that it didn't occur to me to check for clear air space when I stood up to deposit the handfuls of Lego back in the box.

Thwump.

The top of my head connected, unexpectedly and with considerable force, with a piece of overhanging granite and in a millisecond I was back on the floor surrounded once again by scattered Lego. Oh this is flipping marvellous - now I have to add a fractured skull to the mix. Remind me, why did I bother to get out of bed at all this morning? I lay on the floor with my throbbing head in my hands and burst into tears. It felt as if I had really hurt myself and I struggled to get my breath. Whilst attempting to work out if I was still in the land of the living, the little voice in my head continued to nag me. Er, hello? We don't have time for any drama...or urgent trips to the ER...there's still Lego to be put away. And have you seen the state of your kitchen lately? Stop dicking around on the floor and Get A Bloody Move On.

The boys gathered round with concerned looks on their faces, trying to wipe my tears, obviously frightened. My friend, who was playing an active role in the clean up campaign, rushed to the freezer for the trusted bag of frozen peas. A few minutes passed and I was able to gingerly get to my feet, at which point I laid eyes upon the unmitigated chaos masquerading as my kitchen and decided that remaining on my knees was really the most sensible option.

I finally got back to the task in hand, rubbing gently at the huge egg-like lump which had formed on the top of my skull with a Lightening McQueen ice pack. I got changed into my 'party' clothes (jeans, obviously) but on top of it all I was having a 'fat day', which as you can imagine, did nothing to improve my mood.

Ultimately, I was dressed, the house was relatively tidy (although by no means clean), a modest fayre was prepared and guests started to arrive. My head was still incredibly tender so I self-medicated with a huge glass of vodka/tonic and all of a sudden, as if by magic, my birthday started to improve. If only I had thought to start the day with alcohol instead of coffee...a note to self for next year, perhaps.

The rest of the day was just lovely. Couldn't have been better. The children ran amok outside, dangling each other off the deck, placing garden chairs atop the kiddy wagon then racing perilously towards the flight of stairs and then graffitying the back of my house with chalk to create this beautiful birthday mural.

Green Eyed Man turned up with a silly birthday tiara for me to wear and proceeded to mingle confidently with all my friends. All the adults got a little bit tipsy and the kids all sang Happy Birthday before I blew out a few candles stuck in a cupcake. It was so very, very nice.

And the icing on the cake?

When I returned to the house after waving everyone goodbye, GEM and the boys were outside playing football together as if they had known each other for ages, rather than meeting for the first time only 2 hours prior.

I rubbed the sore spot on my head, as I stood at the back door watching them, and smiled.

And decided, that of course my gorgeous boys should join their dad in Disney if that was what he wanted. They deserved it more than anyone I knew. Even me. Or should that be, especially me? Oh, whatever.

Things Should Be Falling Into Place By Now...But They're Not

2010-04-21T14:43:00.000-05:00

I thought I had lost my blogging mojo for a while there. It wasn't an issue with the lack of potential content...quite the opposite. So much to write about, so much I wish I had the energy to record and share. So much going on that I can barely keep up with it all, much less find the time to edit it all into a wry anecdote.

Not only that but I appear to have lost my sense of humour. I have a vague memory of being able to see the funny side of life during our recent Easter trip to the UK...but since returning to Chicago I have been Ms Glum of Glumville. This combination of being homesick and feeling isolated does not make me the happiest camper. It's not really that I have hated returning to Chicago, it's more the return to my situation. The prospect of facing up to the divorce finally.

Ex is now backtracking over the decision for me to move back to England with the boys in the summer (big surprise), so that is once again a big hurdle to face, while the sands of time continue to race through the hourglass. Just the thought of pushing forward makes me feel exhausted, as if I am being forced to trudge my way through thigh deep (slow cooker) sludge. Progress seems to be inexorably slow. I have all the cumbersome baggage of the tortoise to weigh me down, when I typically prefer to race my way through life like the free-spirited hare.

Still.

We all know who was the winner of that race in the end.

So maybe going against my nature and sticking with the painstakingly slow and dull plod through this emotional, financial and legal minefield will yield results in the end.

I took the boys back to the UK over Easter for a short, action-packed 11 day trip. I visited Subversive Mum's flat, took a tour of the school I would like the boys to attend, hung out with my MIL and her other half, persuaded my own mother to purchase vast quantities of the M&S chocolate and confectionary section for me to consume, celebrated my dad's wife's 60th birthday with a fantastic family party, caught up with cousins I haven't seen for years and watched with intense satisfaction as our children played happily for hour and hours and hours.

The trip was a welcome break and it was incredible to be surrounded by the love and support of my family, but it was still stressful all the same. I finally had to face what a mountain I am going to have to climb simply to return home. And how essential it is that Ex and I work as a team to effectively make it happen, which is a little depressing because on reflection teamwork has never been a cornerstone of our marriage.

While I was busy researching living / education options for his sons, Ex was enjoying a week long break in Berlin, visiting one of our oldest friends, with his New Girlfriend. He hadn't shared with me that she was going with him, so it came as a bit of a shock to come face-to-face with her on Skype during one of the boy's video calls with daddy. All shiny hair, sparkly eyes, youthful unblemished skin and large toothy smile flaunting a mouthful of brilliant white perfect teeth. The all American girl on the next stop of her whirlwind European tour. I didn't expect to feel so fazed, so intensely jealous, so sick to my stomach. The idea of her I can handle with acceptance and understanding. The reality of her is a little harder to take for some reason. It wasn't the most sensitive move by my Ex to pull her in front of the camera to talk to the boys, knowing full well I was part of the call. What can I say...I'm pretty sure it's just a not-really-thinking man thing, rather than an attempt to rub my nose right in it. Didn't stop it smarting for a few days though.

Mind you, it also didn't stop me encouraging the boys to choose her an Easter egg to take home, along with Daddy's. I know, I know. The new patron saint of amicable separation, that's me. Might as well start as I mean to carry on. It's not as if ignoring the fact that she is now in their lives is going to make her disappear, so I am trying to find a way to accommodate her presence with a generosity that seems beyond me at times. Oh well. Practice what you preach and all that. I'm sure there will be a Blue Peter badge ready and waiting for me at some point. Or maybe just some peace and a reduction in the jealousy factor, which would be far more satisfying.

I'm not sure what I expected to achieve in this trip but, as it turned out, it was just as well my expectations were low, because I managed to achieve very little.

It's not going to be feasible to rent Subversive Mum's flat because I really need to make a contractual and financial commitment now (which translates to: Ex needs to get his finger out, sign on the dotted line and pony up some cash), which isn't going to happen just yet. I was hoping my dad would agree to be my guarantor, but he has pretty much nixed that idea with the sound argument that Ex or Ex's company/family really need to be the one's securing my short term financial future. This makes complete sense but still leaves me with a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. This feeling of continued dependency on my Ex makes me feel more than a little vulnerable - I thoroughly resent the fact that he is effectively in control of my future and has the final Nay/Yay on my decisions. Can I really trust that he will act in MY best interests in this situation? He is a man of morals and I would go as far to say that he will try to act honorably...it's just that his version of honorable might be on a whole other planet to mine. Only time will tell.

I also tried to open a bank account, because I no longer have an account in the UK after First Direct had the audacity to close ours three years ago. The fresh faced manager in the local branch of my dad's bank (where he has banked for a gazzillion years or more) was confident this would be water off a duck's back. "Do you have a British Passport?" he enquired. "Oh - that should be no problem at all then." These proved to be famous last words.

Of course, what followed was a farcical illustration of the state of computerised banking management. The manager diligently entered pages of personal details into his trusted computer and then appeared to be retyping several copies of War and Peace as he tapped, tapped, tapped away on the keyboard. Big silent pause while the computer digested and assessed my eligibility....until finally, "Computer Says No". He re-entered the information again, pausing only to add my inner leg measurement, with an enthusiastic tap, tap, tap. "Computer Says No". He tried again, adding my shoe size and the fact that I still eat Heinz beans and Marmite on a regular basis, but yet again the computer assessed me as a dubious prospect in banking terms. Thank God I am a fan of Little Britain, or I might have experienced a complete sense of humour meltdown and delicately inserted the keyboard through the computer screen. Instead I inwardly rolled my eyes and mused nostalgically for the days when bank managers were trusted with an element of authority and decision making - rather than Big Brother making all the decisions for them. I only wanted an opportunity to deposit money in the UK after all. But you can't argue with "Computer Says No" apparently these days.

I attempted to cheer myself up with a quick trip to Next, only to encounter a shop filled to the brim with the largest selection of tat that I have had the misfortune to peruse for some time. Oh dear. Somewhere along the line I seem to have been irretrievably influenced by the casual elegance of Banana Republic and the inherent bohemian quality of Anthropology. This does not bode well for a move home. Even Monsoon has lost its allure.

It wasn't all bad though. The boys absolutely thrived on being around family and didn't want to leave.

"When can we move to England mummy?" was a question repeated time and time again.

Hmmm. Good question lads. The mediator meetings start next week. I'll keep you posted.

It's Not Your Average Book Club...

2010-04-20T12:23:00.000-05:00

Just over a year ago a friend invited me to join her book club. And what a book club it is. Of course I had no idea what I had let myself in for when I agreed to join. I like to read books. I like to talk about books I have read (preferably with other people who have read more than the back cover blurb whilst standing in WHSmith waiting for a train). So it was a no-brainer decision. “I’m in!” I said, enthusiastically. “What book are you reading?”

Turns out there wasn’t a book for the first meeting, because it was the Annual Book Club Christmas Party. Well, this whole book club thing is even easier than I thought (I thought). It’s just talking. And alcohol. There’s not even any reading required. I’m definitely in.

My introduction to this particular book club was an eye-opener, that’s for sure. It wasn’t just the fact that all the women attending were impossibly gorgeous and glamourous mothers, well travelled, funny and smart. It wasn’t even the fact that the ‘party’ was a full-blown dinner party with food of cordon bleu exquisiteness. It wasn’t the fact that within 45 minutes of arriving I was as drunk as a skunk (boy, these women might be skinny but they can certainly teach me a thing or two about knocking back wine). No. My overriding memory of the first meeting was the table napkins.

Hmmm.

Not what you were expecting?

Well, it turns out that the item rolled up at each dinner setting was not actually an industrial sized napkin, but a vintage magazine porn. See what I mean? Not exactly what I was expecting either.

The hostess had placed a 1970s copy of Playboy, Hustler, Knave, Bigboobalicious (I made that one up, but you get my drift) by every seat...well, you can imagine that it led to quite a discussion about our reading material that evening. (By the way, I will take the opportunity to say this...if there are any women reading out there who have ‘body issues’ you need to get hold of a copy of vintage porn. There are normal looking women in it - of all shapes and sizes. There are tiny boobs and wonky boobs, droopy boobs and huge boobs resembling sacks of puppies (no silicone perfection in sight). There is more than enough muff to stuff a king-sized duvet with. Your average deli would surely not contain this selection of meat flaps. And the cellulite! Oh, the cellulite!)

I finally stumbled into a cab at 1am in the morning, in a drunken state of euphoria, clutching my ‘party favour’ in a death-like grip. Roll on next book club.

The next book club was even more eventful. This time we had actually been charged with reading a book (although it appears one of the rules of belonging to this particular book club is that reading is entirely optional - there is one ‘founding’ member of the club who hasn’t read a single book yet). Again, everyone dressed to impress and an elaborate dinner is served. There is non-stop talking (although discussions about the book get easily siderailed by much more salacious gossip and real-life drama). This time the vintage porn is replaced by...real life examples of plastic surgery. Not exactly pornagraphic...but not what I would expect to encounter beyond the changing room at the gym (if I’m lucky).

I am discussing something intellectual *cough* with one of the ladies, when I sense the rest of the room go eerily quiet. I turn around to see what is going on and end up with my eye balls mere inches from the most perfect set of breasts I have ever seen in the flesh. Sensing my immediate shock the breasts are instantly covered up, with a swift apology for offending my prudish British reserve. “Oh my God, don’t be daft”, I counter, “they’re stupendous! Can I see them again? And did I just miss someone mentioning a tummy tuck scar?”

Turns out the breasts make a regular guest appearance at book club (although my breasts, being of the 1970s porn variety, stay firmly under wraps).

My, this book club just keeps getting better and better I think.

Ultimately, it was my turn to host book club. I was keen to choose a book, but the thought of hosting the evening brought me out in a cold sweat. I don’t do entertaining as a rule and only had 3 wine glasses and six dinner plates to my name. How does wine taste when served in a sippy cup? I pondered. Maybe that would be...kitsch? I wasn’t looking to up the ante, by any stretch of the imagination, but it would be nice to be in the general vicinity of the ante...and present an image of being a reasonable hostess and not a total pleb.

In the end I bought new plates and wine glasses and slaved over a carefully crafted menu. My book choice was The Other Hand by Chris Cleaves, a book I had read a few months previously. (I hadn’t anticipated liking the book much but found I just couldn’t put it down. Afterwards, I just wanted everyone I knew to read it, so I could talk to them about it. Here was my perfect opportunity.)

Of course I needn’t have worried about the evening, because it was a rip-roaring success. This had nothing to do with the food (which, despite all my hours of preparing, was a complete disaster. Note: never use parchment to line baking trays for fillo salmon...unless the intention is for your guests to be picking pieces of charred paper out of their teeth all night long.) It also wasn’t related to the book (although most had bothered to read it and it sparked quite a lively discussion).

No - it all came down to the party piece...

...a drunken group pole dancing lesson. (Did I forget to mention somewhere along the line that I have a pole installed in my house? Purely for its fitness benefits of course.)

Told you this isn’t your average book club.

Over the course of a year my friendship with these incredible women has gone from strength to strength. As well as sharing our love of reading (Ha! Deeply ironic statement) we have shared two pregnancies and two births (boy and a girl - already betrothed of course), two separations, one divorce, one International move and the birthdays of all our children. There are few stones left unturned within this tight knit group and no subject is ever regarded as too inappropriate to be discussed (honest appraisal of Anal Sex anyone?) From my initial reaction to these intimidating women (‘Blimey, I think I am a bit out of my league here’) I have found many unexpected things in common (including a slight nervousness about having things shoved up my jacksy).

The least of which is a love of the written word.

Tonight’s book up for discussion is Gang Leader for A Day by Sudhir Venkatesh. I am sure it will make for stimulating conversation...before the talk reverts back to kids, relationships and, well, your guess is as good as mine.