December 29, 2008

We Are On a Break

I know I've been quiet the past few weeks, and I know I said I'd be back this week and that I have lots to post about.

The lots to post about part is still true, but I'm not coming back this week.

The truth is, I need a break. Not one of those dramatic hand-wringing, blogger-threatening-to-jump-off-a-literary-cliff break (no, I'm not talking about anyone I know), but a break. A good, old-fashioned pause. I am completely and utterly exhausted. I've been sick for 10 days now, and it's just not going away. We're talking "on the verge of passing out while standing but gee there's a fucking lot to do and no one else to do it" kind of sick. I am not in control of my emotions and booking myself a haircut, a massage, and a trip to the shrinky-dink to see what other pills I can go on tomorrow, all in that order. We've been through a number of big arguments and I wouldn't put it past us to have a few more before the week's out. The nursery is closed all week, my work is piling up, and I am covered in bumps, bruises and aches from trying to keep the house going over the holidays.

For those who said they wondered how I do it all - twins, work, writing, home renovations - the truth then is out - I can't. I've hit my wall.

So no 2008 re-cap which, let's be real, if you've been reading here regularly you know how my year has been. No witticisms, no angsty posts this week. Not just now. I'm going on a break. Not a long one, I'll be back shortly. I'm just completely out of energy in every possible sense of the word and I'd prefer to walk into 2009 instead of crawl, snot pouring out of my nose and my shirt buttoned wrong.

See you shortly.

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December 26, 2008

I Will Survive

Ho ho ho

Three arguments, Angus' brother and I had a run-in, 5 hangovers, 10 people with the flu (myself, Angus and the babies included), 16 people in the house for 24 hours, 1 moody 16 year old, a whole lotta' food and Jeff nearly (accidentally) setting the house on fire and we have survived Christmas 2008.

It has honestly been a lovely and fun holiday in a number of ways, but I am seriously cream crackered.

-H.

PS-I call Nick's outfit "A Catfood Outfit", as in someday I'll be in a nursing home eating a whole lotta' catnip because of that choice.

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December 16, 2008

Carly

There are a number of things going on in my life over here. I don't want to get into it, but suffice to say I entered what I call The Eye Sag stage - the emotions reach in and pull your heart down, taking the area around your eyes with them, sinking your eyeballs in with your feelings. I am completely and utterly exhausted.

On Saturday we went with the babies to East Grinstead, to a party with all of Angus' former childhood chums. We stopped off at his mum's for a short while and then on to his brother's house. We were early, to help out with the preparations. I played with Nick and Nora, who were fascinated with the other kids there. We set up the travel cot in the spare bedroom and tucked the babies into Grobags, settling them into the cot. With a sigh they rolled towards each other and went to sleep almost instantly.

Friends of Angus and his brother started to arrive. Children danced around the table sneaking crisps and Twiglets. The beer and wine flowed. People laughed and talked.

And one of Angus' friends arrived with a little girl. She was dressed in a pink velour sleepsuit with a pink bunny on the lapel and hung on to the neck of Angus' friend tightly. Her name, as she was introduced to me, was Carly.

I think my children are beautiful. They are beautiful (even though a Flickr group asked me to submit one of my photos of Nick to a group called "Poor ugly infants" - in which case they can fuck right off, and how sick is that, there's a group called "Poor ugly infants"?) and I can't help but constantly think they're beautiful.

But Carly wasn't beautiful.

She was absolutely stunning.

A cloud of curls that are the perfect description of the words "strawberry blond" floated around her head, curling appealingly in thick sausage-like rolls in the back of the head. Bright blue eyes that would make a Hollywood starlet jealous stared out under heavy strawberry blond lashes. She had a dimple you could sink a coin into, and a ready and easy smile.

"How old is she?" I ask.

"How old would you guess?" Angus' friend replied.

I think about my two upstairs, and put Carly at a month or two older than mine (but with more hair). "16 months or so?" I ask.

He nods. "Carly's two."

I gasp. She's an itty-bitty thing, much smaller than my two.

"We take her everywhere we go, and we always carry her," Angus' friend said, holding Carly close.

"Does your Daddy carry you well?" I ask Carly. Then I look at Angus' friend. "Do you go by Daddy?"

"No, I go by Jack," he said grimly. "The courts prefer it that way."

Because Carly is a foster child.

Jack and his wife foster children and Carly was delivered to them a few months ago. When the care worker droped Carly off all she had on was a pair of dirty tights. Carly was raised by drug addict parents who put her in a travel cot and never held her, never talked to her, never interacted with her. She had only herself and a filthy cot for most of her life.

As a result Carly is tiny and still fits some clothes in size 9-12 months. She cannot walk or talk. She's developmentally behind but catching up fast. And even though she was left on her own and starved of attention, she is blooming. She mimics everything. She loves to be held and to be cuddled.

This amazing, stunning, perfect little girl was never held.

"They are re-evaluating her case in Easter. I don't know what I will do if we have to give her back," Jack says hoarsely. "We're all crazy about her."

I feel a choke in my throat and, for reasons I don't quite understand, I go upstairs to the spare room. I am crying. The only thing I know is that I have to check on my babies, I have to touch them. I open the door and walk in, and my children are snoring, curled against one another. I lean over and place a hand on each chest, feeling them rise and fall. I rub their foreheads. I soothe their hair. I whisper promises to them that they will never know what it's like to not be held. Already shaken by Baby P, I now have a Carly to tuck into my heart as well.

And I go back downstairs and, like every adult there, I take my turn holding and playing with Carly. She is passed around, never being left alone for a second, never being off of someone's lap or out of someone's arms. She smiles constantly and looks at the world with intrigue and wonder.

This then is my hope - that Carly stays with Jack and his family. If I could phone Santa and ask for one thing, it's that Carly is loved forever. If I could sell possessions for a price to secure it, if I could auction off part of my sould, I would do so, if only that Carly forgets the early years and knows only laughter and light. That there are no more Carlys left out there to not know what it's like to be loved.

-H.

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December 07, 2008

A Letter To Our Neighbors

Dear Neighbors -

I know that a number of Americans used to live in this house and the one next door. None of you were around then, during the Second World War, but I'm sure the thought of Yanks living so precipitously near must keep you awake at night. The scent that Americans have - marshmallows, diet Pepsi, and coconut sun cream - could have permeated into your yards. They were so close - oversexed, overpaid and over here. Yet you kept the Americanness at bay, you fought it off with the same bravado you faced staring down the Blitzkrieg.

Then I came along.

And you were good. You had courage. You hugged your partners in the dark corners of your homes and offered courage to each other. You told yourselves that the world had moved on, you could do this, you could accept*.

I behaved myself. I behaved myself so well that you became convinced that the presence of a foreigner amongst your midst - and previously the only foreigner in this area was a Welshman, and I don't think he counts as truly foreign here - was actually an ok thing. Sure, the strange American had her Fourth of July parties. Indeed there was that temporary scare with a shipping container in the front garden, a container you worried more Americans would appear into and live their lives in bumpkin joy in your area. Yes, she and her English partner adopted a dog with the sense of a walnut. And we all survived the scandal of the American being pregnant with not one but two babies, all while being scandalously unmarried.

The shock. The horror. You were all so, so brave.

You had no idea, did you? You couldn't have known. Never in a million years did you foresee the sheer, unimaginable atrocity soon to land on your doorsteps.

Because the tasteful American and her English partner decorated last night. Their Christmas tree is lovely, an ode to constraint and taciturnity. Strings of red and white lights and an assortment of silver bells and glass balls only, this year Angus got the tree of his dreams.


Tasteful tree


Thank God you didn't see the absolute riot of decorations Helen had on the tree last year. Reindeer, snowmen, and, for reasons known only to Helen, an ornament in the shape of a s'more. You've been spared that, and for that you are grateful.


Even the decorating committee are pleased.


Decorating committee


Thankfully the decorating committee are also wholly uninterested in the tree.

But that's inside the house. Inside the house taste, decorum, and sensibility reign. It's an homage to Victorian Christmas inside.

Outside it's all Vegas, baby.


more...

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December 04, 2008

Ad Man

I've decided to go into advertising. It's been decided. Not only is my burgeoning adoration for Mad Men playing a role in this, but I have some ideas on improvements.

1) First off, to the people who make diapers (I'm looking at you, Pampers and Huggies): Seriously, why bother covering the nappies with Pooh, numbers, and squishy happy characters that should either be frollicking in a Disney movie or making eyes at you from a toy shop window? I mean, it's not like the kids look at their diapers or anything. My two aren't even a little bit interested in their nappies, apart from the tape sections, which they both delight in trying to unstick off of each other's nappies, all while crawling or threatening to drink an entire bottle of Sudocrem or debating the merits of hurtling down the hallway and down the stairs. If you want to cover diapers with something aim for the parents. I'm thinking cocktail recipes, witticisms, or some of the psychotically funny shit from this site. Don't pander to the kids' asses, they're not looking.

Alternatively, cover the entire outside of the nappy with tape. That'll not only keep 'em happy but we can anchor them against the changing mat, much like the premise behind those Wacky Wall Walkers that were cool (up until they got covered in dog hair and wouldn't wall walk so much as hurtle to the ground anymore so you threw them away.) Of course, when the babies get covered in hair like the Wacky Wall Walkers, we won't throw them away but we will present them as the new animal/human hybrid.


2) Oil of Olay undereye anti-wrinkle gel should come in vat size. That gel is the elixir of life. Put it on under your eyes and it's like you have sellotaped the bags away. I love it, it works far better than the poshy shit I used to have but can no longer afford (are you listening Lancome? Are you? It's over!) Oil of Olay needs to make anti-wrinkle forehead gel, too. It should be in something the size of a pumpkin, and it will change the world. Yes, it's full of chemicals that are probably re-writing my genetic code so that when I am 80 I willl look like Dr. Phil, who will have fucked off so many people by then that there will be wanton crowds of bandits roaming the streets beating to death anyone who either resembles Dr. Phil or who has a Texas accent, just because it's so close. But I'm ok with that, because I can be shallow and say that on limited sleep Oil of Olay makes my undereye area look good.

Too bad it can't help with the rest of me.


3) Courtesy of sleeping wrong the other night I woke up with a screaming neckache. Why is it that makers of muscle cream (called Ralgex over here, but I believe in the States it's Deep Heat/Red Heat/Ben Gay/some other combination that inappropropriate Google searches are going to find this post based on) smells like foreskin soaked in formaldehyde? Is it too much to ask for a nice lavender or gingerbread scent? Do we have to smell like old people soaked in chemicals just because our muscles ache?


4) Am still waiting for my second iteration of anti-depressants to work (Post-natal depression is hard, Barbie!) I think we need to make injectible ones. Or a small capsule you pop under your nose, like one of those ammonia capsules/smelling salts that help you wake from a swoon (because life is all about the swooning). This anti-depressant capsule would be broken open during moments of extreme crying jags courtesy of dog food commercials or shouting fits when your partner uses wire cutters to cut his fingernails instead of using the requisite clippers. It should happen soon, this capsule, because I'm quickly headed for "raving bitch" today. Will go get more coffee and see if that can act as a panacea.


5) I wrote up my Christmas cards and sent them out yesterday. The nursery had set up a mailbox to drop the mail off yesterday and I thought How helpful! I'll totally take them up on it because I am involved in the nursery and my children's upbringing! I am one with the nursery! All those who say that people who use nurseries and don't love their children should fuck right off, because my nursery set up a postbox that says "For the kids to leave their Christmas cards!" and I'm all about being involved! In a rush yesterday (as I'm in a 4-day conference that has me lingering on the edge of suicide) I dropped off my beautiful babies and whizzed the cards (already stamped and ready for Mr. Postman) in the box.

When I went to pick up the babies, I saw the box had been edited to say "For the kids to leave their Christmas cards for other kids in the nursery!"

I sighed.

I am nothing if not a fucking idiot.

I went into the baby room, got greeted by two babies who hurtles themselves at my knees (clearly because at nursery they lack attention and nurturing. This is what happens when you let other people raise your children, right?) and the nursery staff, with a laugh, handed me my cards, which as I carried out Nick cheerfully dripped a snotty nose down some of them (sorry Grandma). The babies giving other babies Christmas cards, come on. What's next, baby Secret Santas? Won't they give each other a packet of wet wipes and call it a day?

I'm not big on writing Christmas cards, so for the few "real-life" friends who read here, if you didn't get one this year it's either because A) I stopped loving you, B) I forgot about you, C) my failing right wrist is making writing difficult or D) you strike me as a reasonable sort of person who won't be offended by an e-card.

In response to the Christmas Card Debacle, I want to bring back the newsletter. You know the one, they were big in the 80's. It would talk about the year, with a few badly Xeroxed pictures included, and embody a complete sense of "Boy, do I not want to be doing this at all". A typed up letter that you hand-write the name on, sign it, and maybe add a PS that is personal but in a very half-ass way, like "How's Holly doing?" or "Here's to Ho-Ho-Hoping that mole was benign!".

I'm totally bringing that bad boy back.


-H.

PS-no one from any company mentioned above has endorsed or paid me to discuss one of their products here, but I'm totally open to being bought. Oil of Olay, I'm looking at you.

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December 02, 2008

Gigs and Swunts*

It's the second of December, and already I've opened the second day on my advent calendar. Christmas posts to come (I love writing Christmas posts, I think about them early in the year and work from there. It's one of the few times I actually write a post for people reading this as well as myself, instead of just being a selfish whore who writes blog posts for herself.) but first a bit of a catch-up.

The job is going very well. I'm happy here, and so far I like what I'm doing. The projects I'm taking on maybe aren't the most exciting thing in the world but I got a pay rise (very much needed), I have a fabulous boss, I get on well with my colleagues, and for the first time in ages I like going to work.

On the other side, Angus' job is filled with such stress and politics that it's keeping him up at night. My former boss is playing games and stealing Angus' work (Angus has proof no less) and taking credit for ideas Angus generated. In addition, my former boss has misled Angus' boss (my former boss and Angus are peers in the same organization) and Angus got in trouble for three things he didn't do. He's now trying to deal with his boss professionally and clear his name. I've suggested he engage HR, I think he's headed that way. His working life is very difficult, and we want to get him out of there but the shutters on businesses have come down in turns of hiring, courtesy of the holidays and the recession. Just when I get a job that makes me happy his job descends into hell.

I'm mindful, however, that things can change. With that in mind I've decided to take a piece of what people suggested in calling the new job, and from here on it shall be known as The Gig. I think giving it some kind of adjective in conjunction with the name is dangerous - if I call it "Fabulous Gig" it's all but setting me up to start hating it. So The Gig it is, and thank you for the suggestion.

Melissa and Jeff arrive the 21st of December for 9 days. We haven't seen them since Halloween as we couldn't get dates worked out. There's a bit of stress there as well - we wanted them to stay longer but the Swunt threw a strop. This would be the same Swunt that last year wouldn't let them come here until last minute, and then when Jeff was going to stay in Sweden she forced him to come here as she booked a trip to South America for herself (as you do when you're unemployed and broke, of course).

My dad asked me what the Swunt was going to do for the holidays by herself in Sweden.

My response was shocking in the levels to which she's affected me: "I don't care," I replied. "She can sit in her house and cry for all I care."

That sound you hear would be karma gallopping in to kick my ass in return for my complete and total apathy for the woman.

The Swunt has sold their house. She was shocked at the amount of money she got, she didn't get anywhere near what it was valued for a few years ago, which tells me that she hasn't read a fucking paper as most of us are aware that the housing markets have collapsed. She and the kids are moving in January. They are moving to the middle of Buttfuck, Sweden. Melissa will be commuting 5 hours a day via train for school and Jeff has a 2 hour commute via bus per day.

But hey - the Swunt gets what she wants, and that's what's important.

Angus had suggested Melissa get a one-room flat in Stockholm. This caused arguments all over the place - I was stressed to fuck as not only am I unsure if Melissa is mature enough to handle this (something Angus isn't sure of either) but I didn't know where we were going to get the money to handle this. We're already broke, paying for a flat in Stockholm would be like bleeding a stone.

Angus set the record straight - Melissa works in a stable and her money is appropriated by her mother to care for their horses. Angus suggested that money go to a flat and an education instead of horses. The Swunt put the smackdown on that and used Jeff to deliver the message.

Jeff and Angus are ok now. Melissa and I discuss things via Facebook where, I'm happy to say, she has loads of photos of me and not a single one of the Swunt. But I know that a lot is about to change.

The kids now live 2 hours away from an airport, and it's a regional airport. This regional airport connects to a regional airport here, so instead of a 30 minute drive to Heathrow we'll be fetching the kids from an airport 2 hours away from our house. It doesn't take a genius to know that we'll be seeing les and less of the kids now.

We worry that Melissa will drop out of school, but at least another school closer to home has been located. It's no where near the education that she would have had, but hey - the Swunt's happy. That's all that matters.

Jeff will be starting a new school and that's one area where it may be a good thing - he's being badly bullied at school for being half English. He's been attacked a few times now, and is counting down the days until he's done with this school. I feel bad for him - he's so sensitive, things are so hard for him. But he doesn't do change well at all, and a new school is sure to send him into orbit. At least next Fall he'll start going to an English school there in Sweden, where he'll fit in better.

And we're also constantly aware that the Swunt may (and probably will) come after Angus for more money. He's been paying the child support from a Swedish account he has for the past few years. The account is about to be empty, though, and so the money will have to come out of his salary. My pay rise basically covers, per month, what she should be paid, but I can't tell you how I cannot bear to give that horrible woman any of my money. I fully support that child payments need to be made, but it galls me to think that I work for my money and she just sits on her ass, claims unemployment, and soaks it up. Angus agrees (and never once suggested my pay rise help pay the Swunt, that was my private paranoid fear) and so once he pays out of pocket I'll pick up more of our household costs and I'll pay those, while he pays her.

He's stressed about his kids and their wellbeing.

I don't blame him - I think this whole situation is awful, too.

But hey! Dammit, it's the holiday season. Joy and good wishes and love to all.

Almost all, anyway.

-H.


*Does that sound like a racy title or what?

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December 01, 2008

Judge Not, Lest Ye Get Less Than a 6.0

Pru (you don't know Pru? Go stop by and say hi. She's pretty private and paranoid, so that oughta send her right over the edge) recently blogged about something that has been fucking me right off, too.

Judging.

Not judging as in "starring guest host of X Factor", but people judging me.

I got it on our Thanksgiving, when people kept complimenting my stepmom on her cooking. "Your apple pie was fantastic!" they'd tell her.

Hang on, I'd cut in. I made that.

You? They'd say, their eyebrows going up. But you have work and twins! You can't possibly cook as well.

It's easy. You just bunk off work and ignore your children and let your house cave in under the dirty laundry and tell your boyfriend to fox trot oscar. Then - and only then - can you make the perfect apple pie.

I've been getting it a lot recently. The first occasion was an incident between myself and Angus- sister-in-law, the one married to the sanctimonious one that I call The Minister. This sister-in-law (let's call her Terry) was a stay-at-home mum for years. Now that their second daughter has gone off to school she's studying children's education at university. And she's very, very opinionated. When I went back to work she had her husband call us to tell us that children "in care" don't bond with their parents.

To which I say: Complete, total, utter, unbelievably thick and heavyweight bullshit.

She made it sound as though my children would wind up wandering the streets, hugging on to the knees of any available person who might possibly offer them any scrap of affection. Instead of asking for a quarter they'd beg for a cuddle. Instead of asking someone for the time they'd make unintelligible monkey grunting noises, as no one spent any time teaching them a form of language. There I was, busy clawing and killing my way up the corporate ladder, and I would have to be held up by a little thing called nurturing.

I went wild when Angus told me this (he was the one who took the call. It's really best that he did). He handled his brother and sister-in-law and I firmly requested that this issue never come up again. Ever.

Flash-forward to a month ago, when we met up at Angus' Mum's house. We went over to the house on a weekday, having taken the afternoon off of work, and took the babies with us.

In comes Terry and her youngest daughter, a 5 year old for whom the word "handful" is putting it politely.

"Hello," she says breezily. "I'm home today because my daughter is sick. Children take priority over work when they're ill, you know." she said pointedly, looking at me.

It was one of those slow-motion moments for me, one where my mind had only one thought:

Oh. No. You. Dih'unt.

She's lecturing me. Me. Me, who took days off of work to deal with rounds of chicken pox. Me, who was off two days just last week to be with my sick daughter. Not once have I left my children bleeding out of their eyes at the nursery. Never would I let them cough up a lung without me around as I had a meeting to go to.

And I take a hit at work each time this happens - now that I have to go to work the laundry piles up. Dishes take more time. I get my quality time with the kids but the chores I would've done in between conference calls now need to be done when the babies go to bed. And Angus' workload has increased to the power of ninety, so the housework gets done when the babies nap during the weekend (also? Hey, the blogging has been hit hard by the new job.)

I love spending time with my kids. They are brilliant fun. They are also an incredible amount of work - they're into exploring, so you spend a lot of time chasing them around. Nappy changes have become a challenge as they like to try to crawl while you're changing them, and not only are you trying to change one of them but you've got to keep track of the other. And there are days like this past Sunday, where they're not feeling well and nothing you do is right so all they choose to do is shout and cry. There are times - regular times - when I'm honestly glad to drop them off at nursery. That might be a horrible thing to say but it's true - when the babies are in a bad mood I'm actually glad to hand them over to their carers.

Because the truth is the babies love their nursery. They like their carers, who know how to handle kids and are still sought out by children who have graduated into older rooms and want to come by often to say hi to their former nursery carers. The babies often have a grand time at nursery and they feel completely secure. I've dropped in unannounced and by surprise a number of times, and every time I've come in the babies have been having fun, the majority of time sitting on their carer's lap and getting lots of attention.

My one biggest issue is that I want the babies to feel secure and loved. I know, absolutely, that they do. I can see the joy in their faces when they encounter whatever new activity the nursery has set up for them in the morning. I also get the benefit of seeing them positively light up and hurtle towards me when I show up, grabbing on to me and giggling. I love picking them up from nursery, it's one of the best parts of my day.

I got it again today - I went to a doctor appointment for my wrist and the consultant looked at me over her papers. "It says here you have young twins," she says reading off of my hospital notes. "So you must be an unemployed stay-at-home mum."

Yes. Yes I am. That's why I'm wearing a skirt, heels, and carrying a laptop bag. I sweep softly and carry a big PC. "No, I work," I reply. She looks at me and raises her eyebrows. I can feel her judging.

I work because I have to, and since no one is privy to my financial affairs just trust me when I say that I have to work (and don't feel the need to tell me how I could cut back on things and quit my job. Once again, we need to have two incomes here.) But even if I didn't have to work, I think I would still choose to. I think it's right for our family - I love the babies to bits but sometimes I need a break, just as I think it's good for them to be with othes. It's my choice and I'm not for one moment saying that anyone should do what I do. I think we all need to make our own choices for what's right for our families, and is it too much to ask to just support each other on the decisions? What, is it more attainable to ask for world peace? Eyeliner that seriously, honestly won't run?

At least I didn't, until I came across an old friend on Facebook. She's clever, well-educated, and talented. She's now a stay-at-home mom to her 8 year old daughter, lives in Texas, and spends her time taking care of the house and has a small side business sewing rah-rah skirts and is, apparently, a born-again. I read that and thought: Jesus, where did my friend go?

Then I smacked myself, because just as I bitch that people judge me, there I went, judging her.

Maybe we all need to stop judging, full stop*.

-H.


* Except for my sister. It's totally ok to keep judging her.

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