Lost in Transition

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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).