It doesn’t matter who you are, expat or not, everyone wants to feel that they have a space that feels like home.  The Native and I will be married for five years this year and in that time, we have lived in three properties.  All rented.

We got here because, by most people’s standards, we are pretty strict about living within our means (which is a post for another day) and when we were planning our wedding, we paid for everything in cash.  Both sets of parents were supportive and helped financially along the way, which was and still is so appreciated, but the dress, the car, the flowers, the reception venue and food, the tuxes, the rings….the majority of that money came out of our pockets.  I’m proud of that.

That didn’t put us in a position to save. That was fine.  We naively expected, as I’m sure most of the rest of the Western world did, that when the time came, we would set a little bit of money aside as a down payment on a house and since we both had full-time jobs, we would easily get approved for a mortgage for our starter home.  And then September 2008 happened.  Freaking September 2008.  If you had a face, I’d punch you in it.

Three and a half years later we are in our third rented property and I have been in this ongoing struggle with finding a sense of home.  I struggle because I know that it could be one year, it could be five, but we’re not going to be here long-term.  The property isn’t ours.  It’s not worth renovating and making the changes we’d like to make to the house.  So, how much do we actually invest in the place?

I struggle because in order to get approved for a mortgage someone needs to die and leave us a big old lump of money or I need to apply for Deal or No Deal and try my luck.

What’s that Mr. Banker?  Your first offer is £10,000?  Deal!  I just used The Banker, Noel’s feathered hair and this 1990’s set to get a mortgage, suckas. 

Glorious.

And I struggle because I’m sure that we’d not only be able to buy a home in America, it would be a freaking mansion by British standards.

British house for £125,000 - The front yard. photo via: findaproperty.com

In America the equivalent of £125,000 in dollars is $196,000.  $196,000!   That kind of house would have closets that would be rooms here.  We’d have bathrooms coming out of our noses and other orifices I shouldn’t mention– two, three, maybe even four commodes compared to one (which can make things tricky when you have out of town guests).  Oh and we’d have more than two bedrooms.  Luxury.  But I’m only tempted by that in my more materialistic moments.

I know, I know – up until now it’s been a whiny western post about not owning my own house when there are people who live on garbage heaps.   I get that.  But understand that when you grow up in America where the American dream is completely built on working your way up so you can have your own slice of the land, the entitlement to own a home is as American as Clint Eastwood’s face.  You are bred into that sense of entitlement.  It’s hard to fight – I mean, it is Clint Eastwood’s face, after all.  But I do and I will strive for contentment even if we never have our own sweet piece of real estate.

And here’s one of the ways:

In posts to come, I’m going to write about how I’m making this place, our rental property, home, without throwing cash in the toilet.  I’m going to try to do things that I can take with me or adapt.  Whether you’re a renter or home-owner, free to add your tips on how you make your place home.  I need all of the help I can get.

I can say this because this was me months ago.  Sweet, naïve little me.  Bless her heart.

Then we dropped the dream feed.  And then we flew to America and had a 5 hour time difference.  And when in the world do you feed a jetlagged baby for the two weeks you’ll be in another country?  And then we just caved because it’s easier.  Yeah, I said it — We caved, people.

So, she’s in the bed half of the night.  The half where I just want my sweet sleep and would rather bite off my own toenails after walking barefoot through a field with fresh manure than to get out from under my duvet.  But she’s there.  And genuinely, most of the time we don’t really mind it except when we have a night like we did last night.  Then we mind.  Oh, how we mind.

You should know that there is a moment, a very fleeting moment with The Duchess where when she wakes up, if you can get her dummy to her within that window, she will sweetly drift off into a deep, suckle-induced sleep.  If you miss that window, sweet Lord, prepare to pay.

Me: (Shakes The Native) Wake up, I can’t find her dummy.

The Native: (Grunts) What?

Me: (Patience gone) I can’t find her dummy.  Help me look for it.

The Native: (reaches out with a closed fist and replies serenely) It’s here.

Me: (Opens his fist.  It’s empty.  Smacks his hand away).  NO.IT.IS.NOT.

The Native: (looking startled and mildly upset) It isn’t?  I dreamt it was in my hand.

Me: Ya think!?

By the time this conversation had ended – that window was irrefutably shut. And locked.   And the key was hidden in a kitchen drawer somewhere along with the sandwich bags.

After posts in the past about how great my husband is, which he is, I hope this assures you that our relationship is nothing but normal.  Abnormal even, especially when I have transformed into my Mombie alter ego.

Predictably, this means that the questions that I get from my redcoat compadres aren’t really that interesting.  They instead regularly end with “…..and is that like Friends?”

But…and there is a wonderful but….there is something I have found that I love about these Brits.  Something that has amused and baffled me time and time again.  Wartime propaganda popularised the phrase, “Keep Calm and Carry On.”  Adopting this mentality (or holding firm to that mentality which already may have existed) has helped the Brits face and overcome trying times in their history.  I fear, however, that they sometimes take this mentality too far and I can find myself standing, gaping, wild-eyed at something that has just happened. The American in me will jump, point, scream and wave my arms wildly at what has just gone down.  The British person will stare blankly forward and walk right passed and pretend it never happened.  Keep Calm and Carry On, Brotha.  It’s either that or someone has laced the tea with sedatives.

And, at all costs, ignore any potential awkwardness

So, here it is.  A British Person Did That:

It was a weekday morning and my American colleages and I had just stumbled off of the double decker that had dropped us at the top of the high street in Liverpool.  We were on our way to Starbucks for a late breakfast meeting.  For those who haven’t really seen a city centre before,  Liverpool’s city centre, at any one time, has thousands of people occupying it’s quarters.  It’s where people come to shop, dine, waste time, site-see — you name it.  There is a road that comes out of the top of the high street just before the bombed out cathedral, a landmark.  This road usually isn’t a road that has vehicle access, but occassionally, you’ll see a car drive on it.  Clearly, the pedestrian we lazily spotted as we were chatting in our loud American voices was also aware that cars don’t usually drive out of this road because she wasn’t really looking when, and I kid you not, she stepped right in front of a moving car.  The car struck her.  We all stopped.  One of my male colleagues leapt in the air and said, “WHOA!  Did you see that?!”  And we did because she had rolled up onto the hood/bonnet, rolled back off again and landed on the pavement.  We all stopped and stared briefly wondering if we should run to her, call an ambulance, offer assistance – and so we waited, while we held our breath to see if she would move.  For a few seconds, she sat still on all fours.  We saw the driver start to move to get out of his car.  Then, she got up, and not taking a moment even to look in the direction of the driver, she dusted herself off and WALKED AWAY! And then, the driver drove away.  SHE ROLLED ON THE HOOD, PEOPLE!

A British person did that.  

There was a photo competition being hosted over at Love All Blogs and I only took the time today to read up about what it was about.  It was a link up asking bloggers to post a photo of what they love on their blogs.  Unfortunately (and in true Foreigner fashion) the competition ended mid-day today, and since I read it as “midnight,” I’ve missed the competition, but I don’t care (I mean aside from missing out on a free photobook for entering), because I still want to talk about something I love.  So, here it is, encapsulated in this little moment of our lives caught on film.

The Duchess says, "Happy Daddytine's Day"

Obvious?  Yes.  Cheesy?  The Cheesiest.  But it’s more than just loving two people.  I love them together.  She beams when he enters a room.  She cries when he leaves – even if it’s to go to the kitchen.  He has learnt every song (ahem: and dance) to In the Night Garden and performs them every.single.day. just to make her chuckle.

There is something about seeing the one who helped you create a life love that little life to the point of feeling overpowered by the intensity of it.  It is brilliant.  It fills my heart to brimming every time I witness his love for her, her love for him.  Them.  Just them.  I love this today and every single day.

What is the something you love?

It was a year and a half ago or so that I heard that their middle daughter (who was 17 months old at the time) was diagnosed with leukemia.  I wasn’t a mother then, but knowing the couple, naturally, my heart went out to them.  Over the period of her battle with cancer in a life foreign to ours, My and The Native’s lives changed when we became completely enraptured by the 8lb 3oz ball of life that would steal our hearts forever.

My old acquaintance, would give occasional updates about his middle daughter’s health, and after experiencing the great love that only a parent can have for a child, I read them differently.  Naturally, imagining ourselves in that situation, imagining my daughter fighting for her life made me weep for them sometimes. But let me say, I can’t pretend I knew anything of their pain or struggle.  I actually feel like it’s unfair or self-indulgent for me even to talk about because I can’t say that I’ve ever had to face that kind of fear, worry or complete helplessness.  Through imagination, I only know what it might feel like.

Last month, at 3 years old, Ruth died.  I never knew her.  But I wish for her Mum and Dad — for her two sisters — that she was still healthy and here with them.  Because while I am certain that they draw strength from their faith to get through each day, and their hearts quietly rejoice that her body is now alive and well in a far better place, while they still wait here – hearts never fully mend from that kind of loss.

I’m writing about Ruth because another blogger brought to my attention the need of a little girl called Aillidh.  She, too, has leukemia and needs a bone marrow transplant and she needs to find a match.  She needs it to have a chance at living.  For these parents, for Ruth, for Aillidh, why not look into ways you can help?

 Support the hospitals and staff who are trying to cure cancer and care for these precious children and their families. 

 Help find a bone marrow match for Aillidh.  

I decided to grab one of her books that we have only read once.  It is too old for her.  It’s not a board book and it has far too many pages for the fleeting attention span of an eight month old.  But I decided I’d sit down with her and begin to read it anyway.  Four pages in and she let out a frustrated whine and scooted away, but I read on aloud.  I realized that I was reading the book, not to her, but to myself.  Because sometimes, even when they have colourful covers and beautiful illustrations, the story in children’s books are more for grown-ups than anybody else who may be turning the pages.  These rare books are full of words that have the potential to hold your inexperienced hand through childhood as you begin to see that the world isn’t exactly as you thought.  These words are also full of advice that you realize, as an adult, those closest to you failed to give, or just couldn’t find the way to say it, or hadn’t learnt these lessons for themselves yet.  They show you in what ways the world can be mean, lonely, or cruel, but that there is always hope.  And because children seem to hold onto this belief inherently, I do wonder if perhaps Dr. Seuss wrote this particular story to the parents who would be reading this, more than for the child who sits on their lap.

Still, I hope that instead of a book, I can be the one that stands by The Duchess to teach and support her as she learns these wonderful and hard lessons, even if we do use Dr. Seuss to help us talk it through.

Image: iphone-screenshots.com

Excerpts from:
OH!  THE PLACES YOU’LL GO!

 …..Oh, the places you’ll go!  There is fun to be done!
There are points to be scored.  There are games to be won.
And the magical things you can do with that ball
will make you the winning-est winner of all.
Fame!  You’ll be famous as famous can be,
With the whole wide world watching you win on TV. 

 Except when they don’t.
Because, sometimes, they won’t.

 I’m afraid that some times
you’ll play lonely game too.
Games you can’t win
‘cause you’ll play against you.

 All Alone!
Whether you like it or not,
Alone will be something
you’ll be quite a lot. 

 And when you’re alone, there’s a very good chance
you’ll meet things that scare you right out of your pants.
There are some, down the road between hither and yon,
That can scare you so much you won’t want to go on.

 But on you will go
though the weather be foul.
On you will go
though your enemies prowl.
On you will go
Though the Hakken-Kraks howl.
Onward up many
A frightening creek,
though your arms may get sore
and your sneakers may leak. 

 On and on you will hike.
And I know you’ll hike far
and face up to your problems
whatever they are. 

 …So….
Be your name Buxbaum or Bixby or Bray
Or Mordecai Ali Van Allen O’Shea
You’re off to Great Places!
Today is your day!
Your mountain is waiting.
So….get on your way!

 Oh, The Places You’ll Go! was published when Dr. Seuss was 86 years old, one year before his death.

Do you have a childhood book that means something to you?  

Brit-speak: Tea

Ameri-speak: Dinner/Supper

Everyone loves to be invited around to someone’s house for a meal.  It means you don’t have to think about cooking (which, if you read regularly, you know I hate the thinking bit of cooking) and you get the double bonus of not having to do the dishes.  My first job in England was working with university students and I would often have someone say to me, “Oh, you must come around to tea.”  In my rookie days, I just assumed this meant that they wanted me to come to their house and drink tea with them.  And that wouldn’t be a particularly odd request in England, right?  The thing is, I’m not a tea drinker, so I’d be all, ‘Oh yeah.  Let’s do that some time,” but would never get my diary out because I’d think….

This British person is going to get their fancy teapots out and they’re going to don one of their flair-y fascinators and they’re going to want me to drink tea and enjoy it.  Schno, thanks! 

The fascinator pic was always going to be Beatrice and Eugenie, wasn't it? photo: dailymail.co.uk

(I am aware that some of you dream of doing this with a British person.  I am also aware that my British readers will laugh in this face of that dream.)

But then, THEN, months, maybe years later I learnt that tea can mean dinner (or supper, depending on whether you live above or below the Mason Dixon) and I was ticked.  How many free meals had I missed out on because I actually thought these people just wanted me to drink tea?  How many nights had I arbitrarily planned meals that could have been carefully chosen and prepared for me.  It truly depresses me to even consider it.

……I’m still thinking about it.

……I bet my hands would be softer, my pockets would be fuller, and my presently too small waist would now be curvier if I had only known.

Sigh.

With all of the lying around I’ve been doing over the last couple of days I have been thinking more about the fact that in just over a month I will become a member of the Dirty Thirty club.  The big 3-0.  The fourth decade.  The age that everyone wants to be the new 20, but when you find yourself strolling through the aisles of M&S, you realize it just isn’t.  Turning 30 (or any milestone age) is bound to make you reflect.  That and when you start to see your “not really friend” friends who are on facebook putting up statues like:

OMG!  This afternoon I got to cross off Sky Diving into an Iron Man race, completing it and celebrating by building a house for Habitat for Humanity from my Bucket List.  Next up is teach an ape how to body pop so that he can perform on America’s Got Talent and show people that we are all just animals, really. 

 I started to question whether I should have a list of incredible things I would like to accomplish before I kick the bucket.  And then I remembered who I am.  Instead, I decided to compile a list called the ‘Suck At’ list, because they are ten things that I’d like to just get on top of or finished before I die.  I think other people call them daily “To do’s.” I was also going to do 30 things.  Then, I again remembered who I am.

1. Get birthday presents to people on time
2. Vacuum and see that it makes a difference in removing The Big Brown One’s hair from the carpet.
3. Buy something to store our towels in.  There is literally no where to put our towels in this freaking Victorian house.
4. Get Christmas cards to people on time.
5. Get to the bottom of our laundry basket.  I wonder what’s down there.  Some say it’s the 8^th Wonder of the World.
6. Put our clocks in sane places in our house instead of hanging them anywhere I have found a nail or bolt.  It looks like the Mad Hatter lives here.
   

   I'm late, I'm late....in 3 different time zones

7. Scale the great peak that is our pile of ironing.
8. Get fish for the fish tank that we put water in 6 months ago.  The water has evaporated over halfway.
9. Do something to ensure that I never, ever, EVER have to plan another week of meals again.
10. Send a completed letter to anyone.  Ever.  (There are 3 out of date ones sitting in my desk right now – perhaps if they sit there long enough they will become relevant again.)

I aim high.

I hope this has made you feel better about yourself.

*I’ve overlooked an important item:

     11. Remember passwords to things.  

Check me out.  I excelled myself.  

Around midday, I had a dull ache in the left side of my lower back and it quickly began to intensify.  At first I just wrote it off as ‘woman pains,’ but soon enough I knew otherwise.  I’ve had kidney stones five times before and I immediately believed that baby stone #6 was on its way and that I was not in for a pleasant experience.

So, naturally I text The Native and ask him to call…now.  No response.  I call about 6 times.  Nothing.  I send more texts.  No Native.  I am cursing The Native and wishing a fiery hailstorm upon his head.  (It just so happens that at exactly that moment he was trading out his phone and SIM card).  It’s at this stage that I begin to writhe around on The Duchess’ nursery floor. The Duchess interprets my jerking movements as a game of Mommy the Climbing Frame.  Her favourite climbing spot was my left side, because of course that’s how it would go down. 

I call the mother-in-law to save me and, while she is driving over, call our GP to say that a lady with a stone baby is coming and I want drugs – the knock you on your butt kind – AND as soon as I get there.   Since I’m breastfeeding, the GP talked through my options for pain relief while I groaned like a woman delivering a 14lb baby.

“How do you feel about a suppository?  They are fast-acting.”

And I say okay, but what I really mean is that I’d let her shove a 12 inch meatball sub up my bum if I knew it was going to make me feel better.

I did not get the pain killers straightaway, but instead had to have my blood drawn, pee in a cup, have my blood pressure taken, have my stomach examined and do a little tap dance.  She was actually really lovely, but left it all too long as moments after suppositories were in and the codeine was ingested, I emptied the contents of my stomach into the Patient toilet.  And that, my friends, in a place that is full of sick people, is something you never want.  Who knows what kind of lurgy I have now picked up.

Despite upchucking everywhere, the pain meds still took affect and by the time I got home, my limbs were nicely tingling and I was convinced that codeine and suppositories are the answer to all of life’s problems – until around 4pm when the codeine made me nauseous – that evil seductress.  I have had a headache ever since.  The Native keeps advising that I take more codeine for this problem.  I think he may falsely believe that codeine is the answer to all of life’s problems, too.

Thankfully, I have no abdominal pain anymore, which is a relief.  They’re not even sure it was the Stones of Doom, but I am only cautiously optimistic.  I am going to the hospital tomorrow for more tests and hopefully the all clear.  In the meantime, thank goodness for mother-in-laws who rush to your aid, take you to the doctor and then spend their day at your house while you sleep off your pain killer hangover.  You are awesome, M-I-L.

I especially love when I find American products I love in England, because that’s certainly not always the case and so imagine my joy when, during pregnancy, I came across Burt’s Bees Baby Bee products.

North Carolina beeswax goes British, baby

When I was 17, I remember my first encounter with Burt’s Bees products. I had borrowed a girl’s Burt’s Bees chapstick at lunchtime (as teenage girls do – I mean can you imagine saying to your boss at lunch “Hey, can I borrow your chapstick?” and then smearing it all over your Doritos stained mouth?). Having gone through a slue of lip balms to make sure my lips were super soft for the booooys (ahem, boy), as my lips tingled from the peppermint oil, I quickly ruled that it was one of the more worthy chapsticks I’ve come across. And to this day I still believe it. Most seem just to coat your lips in a waxy substance, but this actually seems to help your lips stay hydrated and soft, in the way that you hope a chapstick will. And before the words ‘organic’ ‘all natural’ or ‘paraben free’ became marketing buzz words, Burt’s aimed to use ingredients that were all natural. Clearly, natural ingredients are actually important to them, rather than being a way to win people over.

Upon seeing it and without even reading the label, I knew that Burt’s Bees Baby Bee products would be made up of the good stuff, which perhaps is at the forefront of some parents’ minds given the recent findings about Johnson’s baby shampoo. The Native and I picked up the fragranced shampoo and body wash and the buttermilk lotion. At a pricey £8 each (and PLEASE don’t look up the price and currency conversion in America, it’ll make you vom) I was dubious about whether we’d be replacing them once they ran out. But the first bottle of shampoo and wash actually lasted us the whole of six months. Perhaps because we only bathed her once a week (I’m kidding!). I’d say that’s a pretty good stretch. Some parents would argue that you only need to use water and shouldn’t use fragranced products on a baby because it can irritate their skin, but The Duchess has somewhat sensitive skin and neither the wash nor lotion has ever caused her any problems. Her skin tended to flare up more when we weren’t using it. If you are still anti-fragrance they do sell fragrance free options. We have loved the Burt’s Bees Baby Bee products we’ve used and would certainly spend the money to buy them again. Plus, after a bath they make The Duchess smell like royalty – and that’s saying something considering how often she spews!

And so the first ever Duchees goes to…Burt’s Bees Shampoo and Wash and Buttermilk Lotion. Keep up the good work, Burt’s!

Anyone else used Burt’s stuff before? What say you?