Week 40

I’ve neglected my blog.  The truth is, when I sat down to write it last week, I felt completely deflated.  I felt flat.  The weather was flat, my photos were flat, my thoughts were flat, even my hair was a bit flat actually.  Every week in London can’t be epic or exciting or awe-inspiring, although I think I often have that expectation because we are living a dream after all.  But sometimes, just sometimes, the homesickness sneaks back around, I get tired of feeling like it’s still the beginning of spring, or worst yet, not quite the end of winter, the schlepping back and forth to school on foot in a very urban setting gets oh-so-old, routine is synonymous with monotonous, and not feeling settled into anything of my own really other than taking care of Liam and making our flat pretty feels just a bit lonely when he’s off doing amazing things at school, Keegan is making things happen at work, and I’m left to my own devices.  Inevitably, I was starting to take my surroundings for granted.  When we first moved here and the weather was still nice tolerable, Liam and I embraced the adventure of exploring a new city.  But as the year continues, Liam finds less and less joy in hopping on and off trains and busses and darting through masses of people on his scooter and more and more interest in playing with his friends.  As such, I have been quite busy arranging and rearranging his social life and realized I was not finding time for much else.  But this week, as I was struggling with finding ways to rise above my bad attitude, that summer day for which we have all been waiting . . . dawned.  And not a moment too soon.  Layers of clothes were shed, we walked to school with a bounce in our step, I spent the morning figuring out something fabulous to do after I picked Liam up (it was all I could do to keep myself from pulling him out early), and we embraced the day like it was the only summer day we would ever have here (and, incidentally, it may very well be)!  We hit Hyde Park, took a stroll along the warm pollen-laden path, played in the cascading, swirling pools of the Diana Memorial Fountain, had an early alfresco dinner on the Serpentine Lake complete with wine and sparkling raspberry lemonade, took a paddle boat out for a spin, and concluding the evening with a walk back to the tube with a huge bubble maker I bought Liam at the gift shop.  We were surrounded by masses of giddy families doing just the same.  Since the sun doesn’t set until 9pm or so, we didn’t leave the park until 8pm, the time Liam would have been regularly scheduled to be fast asleep in his bed.  It didn’t matter.  That day could’ve lasted forever.  It was perfect.  

(P.s...if you're sick of seeing photos of my son {i.e....because you aren't family}, stay tuned for my next post of our weekend trip to the lovely Cotswolds...)

Week 18

This week was all about getting Liam settled back into his school routine . . . i.e. wake up, eat breakfast, get dressed, brush teeth, out the door, meet buddy outside, scooter to school.  It sounds simple enough on paper, but in reality, there is more drama before 9am in my life than on an episode of Real Housewives.  Here‘s how it really plays out:  

Liam wakes up with an hour to go before departure, lays in bed for 5-10 minutes enjoying the coziness (no, he does NOT get this from my lovable yet freakish husband who bounds out of bed like an over eager puppy dog with a full bladder), finally makes his way to the breakfast table like a floppy doll with equally floppy hair, spends a good 30 minutes eating the amount of breakfast comparable to a baby bird’s meal and then of course wants more, but if you’re doing the math, now we are down to T minus 15 minutes and counting and Liam still looks like he just rolled out of bed.  We spend the next ten minutes arguing about what trousers to wear (Liam prefers 2 pairs out of about 10 that are in his drawer and because I refuse to do laundry every other day, at least 3 days out of the week I am in for it), what socks to wear (see above scenario and just thank the Good Lord he doesn’t mind if his socks don’t match), what extra layers should be added (Damn you, Winter), and oh crap, you forgot your knickers?!  Seriously, Buddy?!  By this time, our 3 1/2 year old scootering buddy is outside the front door, all smiles, rosy cheeks, and looking as stylish as a babyGap advertisement.  Moment of truth:  brush teeth or put on knickers?  We go with knickers.  If commando doesn’t fly at his school in California, I know for a fact it’s not going to go over well at his British school.  Besides, his breath doesn’t stink yet so no one will know that little secret.  We fervently throw on shoes, coat, gloves, hat, and helmet.  This usually does not go down without extreme difficulty and well, if I’m being honest, maybe some yelling (I won’t say from whom).  Nice and patient Mommy left the building 3 meltdowns ago.  All of the bullshit fun songs and games that "good parents" play to motivate their children have somehow escaped my memory.  We finally get out the door without killing each other and have about fifteen minutes flat now to scooter a mile to school.  With 2 preschoolers.  And a stop to pick up a third one on the way.  I won’t get into the whole dynamic of three uber competitive preschool boys, on their scooters (with matching union jack helmets, mind you), fighting to the death jockeying for the lead, winding themselves through rush hour commuters on a 3 foot wide footpath, AND obeying traffic laws except to say, hey, these are life lessons we are learning here.  I can’t even imagine how insanely ridiculous the other 2 parents and I look chasing after these mini daredevils.  We are in complete control.  I swear.  Really.  The good news:  this is the quickest part of our morning.  The bad news:  tears and bickering are always involved and almost always some kind of crash is involved.  And yes, at least one of the boys has taken down a civilian.  Now we are back to painfully long, sad, pleading goodbyes at the school gate *sigh* and I am supposed to be ready to “get some work done” by the time I get home?!  The upside is now I have a whole extra hour and forty five minutes before I have turn back around again and collect my little drama queen sweetie for the scooter home.  I will say, I have yet to return home and go back to bed.  I swear.  Really.  

As much as I would love to take my camera some morning and record this spectacle I have described, and some day I might still, I think someone might actually die if I was busy taking photographs and not minding the action packed adventure that is our ride to school.  Cars . . . eh, who needs 'em?!  Multiple people have asked me why the parents of the other 2 boys and I don't share drop off responsibilities.  Again, the word death comes to mind.  I just give a little chuckle and look forward to the next morning.  It always holds something new and exciting.

I can never fully understand how something this completely beautiful, small, and lovable can be the source of so much hair pulling sometimes.  BUT, when I pick my buddy up in the afternoon and the rest of the day holds no agenda, we have the best time together.

This week I challenged myself to shoot 500 photographs so hence the somewhat random photographs.  I came not at all close to my goal, but I did have my camera on me so much more than last year so it's a start.  I want to really take advantage of this time to continue growing and getting better so hence the loose resolution to shoot more.


And . . . lo and behold . . . my New Year's project . . . our bedroom . . . the "Before" . . . stay tuned for the "After" . . . 

Week 17

This week, we were all a bit underwhelmed by our return to normalcy.  Strangely, I was completely comforted by this fact.  I’m not sure what I expected to feel upon re-arrival into Heathrow, but I was kind of pleasantly surprised by my relief to be “home.”  So we still have loose ends to be tied up dangling every which way I look, our nest could use a little fluffing (read:  the flat continues to look like we only just unpacked and stopped, which . . . well . . . we kind of did actually), I still haven’t managed to visit Buckingham Palace or Westminster Abbey, my outerwear could use some revamping to fit the weather extremities, and I don’t know nearly enough British colloquialisms to impress my wanna-be-British-lad big brother, BUT, somehow, at some point during the last 3 months, we managed to make ourselves at home, literally.  I don’t think you can ever fully feel comfortable living out of a suitcase (unless, of course, you are on some beautiful white sandy island with turquoise water and the contents of your suitcase includes a couple of bikinis, some shorts and tank tops, a pair of flip flops, and sunscreen) even if it is only for 2 weeks and even if it is in said wanna-be-British-lad's beautiful, immaculate and roomy resort house surrounded by the warmest, most welcoming family.  I would be lying if I said I wasn't glad to come back to London.  After the last few months, normalcy is bliss.  Maybe I would’ve felt differently if we had gone to California for Christmas, so I’m glad we didn’t, but even then I’m not sure.  Yes, our memories as a family are there, some of our best friends are there, the Pacific Ocean, Wine Country, and abundant sunshine is there, maybe even my heart is there, hell, maybe Liam’s too . . . but . . . someone else is living in our little house.  Our little green house with white gingerbread trim perched up on the hill, where we used to sit on the front steps with a glass of red wine, a California Pinot no doubt, and watch a young Liam toddle around in the front yard as the sun sunk into the Pacific Ocean with a sigh of contentment.  That’s not a scene in which we belong anymore.  Some other young couple is starting their life together on those steps now.  We wouldn't fit in that house anymore anyway with all of Liam's legos!  I have come to the conclusion, home actually isn’t where the heart is.  I’m not sure I’ve ever really liked that saying anyway.  Home is where you can throw all your crap on the floor at the end of a long day, where you can walk around in your jammies drinking coffee and eating cereal straight from the box all day without a sideways glance from anyone, where you tuck your little guy into bed every night with familiar blankets and all requisite stuffed animals at arm’s length, in essence, where you unpack all your stuff, set up fort, and make a life.  Home is here.  For now.  Your heart can be anywhere.  I guess that doesn’t really fit on a bumper sticker as well.  And so to our painstakingly mundane and uninteresting to anyone but the 3 of us routine we have gladly returned and now we cast our eyes to the year ahead.  It’s going to be a good one . . . full of photography and hopefully, an improved repertoire of British jargon!

Liam's interpretation of what to do after you've scored a soccer goal.  Something I'm sure he'll be perfecting soon enough!

*Sigh*  I suppose I should get my cute little hobbit a haircut...

Week 12

I have realized over the past few weeks, I may have just been kidding myself:   

Extract our four year old from the only home, neighborhood, friends, and school he has ever known . . . eh, no problem.  Pack a small box of toys for him to keep and throw everything else, including beloved red bicycle, big green dinosaur pillow, and a basket full of the coolest train track pieces ever carelessly into storage without a second glance . . . eh, no problem.  Whisk ourselves away to the airport in a fury of goodbyes while Mommy is wiping away tears, Daddy is cursing under his breath about missing our plane, and the cats are wailing away inconsolably in their kennels . . . eh, no problem.  Come out on the other side ready to take on a new home, a new school, new friends, hell, a new bed, all completely unscathed AND keep that lovable grin on his face . . . nope, no problem at all.  Kids are SO adaptable.  Much more adaptable than adults really.  Liam is FINE.  As long as he has the constant and unchanging love of his parents, we can throw anything at him and he won’t even blink . . . 

Right.  Back to reality.  The crux of the matter, which somehow I have failed to realize all this time, is this:  Even if I talked to him until I was blue in the face, I could never fully know what is going on in the mind of that precious little boy.  He is four after all.  Why would I expect him to process things like I do.   I talk, I write, I take photos, I blog, Keegan would say I overanalyze, I would say I put my thoughts and experiences into perspective.  We are twelve weeks in and here I am still trying to wrap my brain around all of it really.  Liam?  He refuses to use the front toilet in our flat unless I am right outside the door because it’s “scary.”  He cries when we say goodbye at the school gate.  He clings to me irrationally at the supermarket and in department stores like I might vanish before his very eyes.  He threw inexplicable, uncharacteristic tantrum at the prospect of having a day out with his grandparents.  He comes home everyday and settles in for the rest of the afternoon, completely uninterested in leaving the house again and has extremely high expectations of my abilities as constant playmate (I am immediately remorseful for ever feeling annoyed by this fact as soon as I kiss him goodnight and he throws his little arms around my neck every single night and asks me to stay).  Otherwise he is the same old Liam and most times does have that lovable grin on his face.  “Do you miss your old school Liam?”  “No.”  Do you want to move back to California Liam?”  “No.”  “Oh, he’s just acting out, going through a phase, he’s fine....” we’ve thought and said out loud many a time.  But really, guess what Mom . . . you are still processing, HE is still processing . . . just not in any way that is obvious or verbal or . . . well . . . expected.  So when Liam finally did muster enough gumption this week to actually come out and say to me, “Mommy, I miss my stuff,” I almost cried for both of us right then and there, right in front of him.  Well, gosh buddy, we did leave a LOT of your stuff behind now didn’t we?!  I almost cried again, writing the bit above about said beloved red bicycle, thinking of that day, how he had one last ride down the driveway before the massive storage door slammed down in front of our eyes, covering up all evidence of a past life in sunny California.  I just can’t even imagine what that must’ve been like for him . . . such a MASSIVE thing happening to anyone, let alone someone so small, so sensitive, so impressionable.  Perhaps and hopefully, coming to such a poignant moment in which he was able to verbalize something as seemingly small as missing his stuff is in fact a huge turning point.  

Thankfully, the tears at the school gate seemed to have ceased.  After the Christmas Holiday, we have arranged for Liam to stay for lunch and playtime at school with the rest of his four year old buddies, in which, up until this point, he has had no interest whatsoever.  And then, of course, there are the new toys I have overcompensated purchased for under the tree that surely will serve as a timely distraction.

What all of this has to do with the photographs this week, I have no idea really.  It has just been weighing on my mind a lot lately.  It was just such an eye opener to realize that what is going on with him internally, with any child I suppose, comes out externally in all kinds of muddled up ways.  There is a meaning to all of the madness.  While of course, there is no road map to decipher all the possible reasons or combinations thereof for their external actions, at the very least, it somehow makes all of these 4 year old dramas struggles completely and utterly forgivable.  

And on that note, moving onto our day trip to Cambridge:

Behold, King's College Chapel ... easily the most beautiful church I have ever been inside ... comparing it to La Sagrada Familia would be like comparing apples to oranges so I am not counting that one.

I am always pleasantly surprised by the things in which Liam is interested.  He wanted to go inside this church more than anything we did that day (aside from playing with my phone in the pub).  He was totally cute.  I let him light a candle and say a prayer for someone of his choice.  He chose Joseph, as in the Joseph, who apparently he has quite an affinity for as he recently chose to be Joseph in the school play.  He lit the candle and then asked me how to say a prayer for Joseph.  When I walked away, I heard him whisper, "Dear God, Thank you for Joseph.  Amen."  
Heart.  Melted.