Icy Family Feud Ends In Court

I'll post about seeing the social worker as soon as I can get my head around the meeting we had - hopefully tomorrow or the day after. Today, a vision of my future, if my children had their way. 


MOTHER LOSES COURT HEARING AS CHILDREN REFUSE TO 'LET IT GO'

A Berkshire mother of two was today sentenced after losing a landmark hearing regarding her children's access to the film Frozen. 

After sentencing, a  tearful Mrs Chapman told the waiting media, "This has all been a terrible misunderstanding. I didn't realise that it was actually The Law that children had to be allowed to watch Frozen at least once per day. Now that I know this, my behaviour will change. I'm going to go home and put this right."

Her sentence included a commitment to learn all the songs on her ukulele - even the boring ones - and play them for impromptu karaoke sessions whenever her children ask. Judge Menzel, presiding, said that her sentencing specifies that "This really does mean whenever she is asked, even if it is nearly bedtime."  In addition, the family laptop will be repurposed to show the film on an infinite loop, and Claudia, 34, will wear her hair in mandatory braids every day for the next year, 'just like Ana'.

Neighbours reported that tensions had been growing in the Chapman household for some time. When interviewed, Pink Chapman (who asked that we refer to her by her preferred name of Elsa) said "It was obvious to everyone that something wasn't right with how our mother was treating us. It's not like she couldn't show us the film; we could see the DVD on the shelf. The problem was that she was restricting access, and children need to watch this film daily. Everybody knows that. Now that she has signed a contract and her probation officer will be checking the house regularly, I'm hopeful that we can all put this episode behind us".

Her brother Blue agreed. "She was only letting us watch it while we were having our hair done, and that just wasn't enough," he said. "It's true that we did watch it four times in one week when it arrived, but that was while she was learning to do cornrows and there was a lot of inconsistent behaviour relating to that, anyway. Four times in one week turned out to be the best it ever got, and that's why we had to get the authorities involved".

When asked why they had decided to litigate, rather than seek a more informal  resolution, he said "Elsa and I love our mother, but there are some things that need to be taken seriously. We called for help, and I'm just grateful that help came in time."

A spokesperson for Berkshire child services said, "We are very pleased with the outcome of this ruling. Obviously, we are working towards a situation where all children have unrestricted access to Frozen at all times, but until that day comes, we think the current one-viewing-per-day laws are adequate, and we are glad they are being properly enforced."

When asked to comment, the children's father, Jay Chapman, said "I have no opinion to give. This whole situation has nothing to do with me; that's why I go to work."

The family have asked for privacy at this difficult time.

So I Called The Adoption Agency Again

Last Tuesday, I called the adoption agency who did our assessment back in 2008. Was that really six years ago? I suppose it was, and I haven't slept properly since. (And I guess that would explain why I recently got told off by a makeup guy in Selfridges for looking like something he found underneath his shoe. I wanted to buy some foundation, but after 'working' on me for a little while, he sighed and said people come here and they expect that a new foundation is going to work some kind of magic. But really, there's nothing foundation can do for you if you have open pores, and fine lines, and an oily T-zone. You don't need a different foundation, you need to take better care of your skin. I was so shocked by his honesty that I bought the foundation. Now that I have it home, I realise that my skin might be terrible - okay, it is - but his foundation isn't all that either. Never trust a man who wears more bronzer than you do, is probably the moral of that story).

Anyway. I didn't call them to schedule another homestudy. I asked to speak to their post-adoption support team (miraculously, they have a post-adoption support team) and told them, as neutrally as I could please help us. Things are really difficult around here and we need some help. 

What do you mean by difficult? the social worker asked, and I told her about what had happened that day - a huge tantrum out of nowhere that I couldn't do anything - anything - to stop - and about how that had come in the middle of a really good period and I feel like the Jekyll / Hyde thing going on around here means that I'm living in fear of my child, in some awful way, and I told her about the hitting and the mood swings and the attachment stuff. What kind of attachment stuff? she asked, and I thought for a minute and said how, if I want to shower (and I do want to shower) I have to choose between using the TV as a babysitter or having a small child stare at me from his seat on the closed lid of toilet, just making sure I don't climb into the plumbing and escape, even though I have showered every morning for four and a half years and every single time, I've come back out of the bathroom, still there, still me and still his mother.

All of this come out in a rush. And I kept saying this probably sounds silly and she would reply no, don't apologise and every second sentence of mine was I need to say that I love my son so much, I love him so much. I just wish he didn't need to stare at him while I'm soaping. 

I didn't say that some days I do want to climb into the plumbing and escape, although I'm pretty sure she knew.

I do love my son so much. More than words can possibly say.

On Friday, the social worker called me back to schedule a meeting with her and me and Jay. She barely said hello before I start talking, and told her - I realised that I forgot to tell you about the spinning. She said do you mean physically spinning? and I said yes and she said oh. Then she said I think I know the kind of thing you mean which was like a rush of oxygen to me because it wasn't just well, boys are like that which I've heard too many times to count.  

I love my son so much, I told  her again. She didn't say anything, which was a shame, because I wanted her to say he sounds amazing. You are so lucky to have such a wonderful son. Because I am lucky, and everybody should know that. He is hilarious and wonderful and so, so affectionate. I adore him.

I suppose this is the main reason it has taken me so long to call and ask for help. I feel like hitting up post adoption support services is saying our family is falling apart, is saying this adoption was a terrible mistake when the truth is, honestly, I love my son so much. (And my daughter, just for the record).

And who wants to be the family who is calling post-adoption support, four and a half years after placement? Nobody, that's who. It just feels kind of dumb. And I've talked to a few people about some of my concerns, but so many people saying that's what boys are like / he'll grow out of it / he's so good every time I see him that I thought maybe I was going crazy. They convinced me that I shouldn't call. And I feel kind of mad at the people who told me those things, because I probably should have called last year, but the truth is, it wasn't their job to decide whether or not my son (and our family) needed some extra support. We're the parents; it's our job. We should have started ignoring them sooner. I got a big push from my sister - an early childhood teacher - who told me I've seen a lot of kids and what you're describing is not normal. You should definitely go and ask somebody for some help. Of course, that made me kind of mad at her - isn't this just a phase? Aren't all boys like this? Are you saying there's something wrong with my precious boy? How dare you!!

And even after this conversation, I still didn't call.

I talked to a friend who is a nurse. She said yeah, you should probably call somebody. I didn't.

And at that point, I realised the other reasons why I really didn't want to call. It's not just that I don't want to believe there's something wrong with my son (although I don't) it's that what I really feared was that they would tell us - me and Jay - there was something wrong with us. After all, I can list the things that my son struggles with but there's a far, far longer list of things I struggle with, things like the yelling and the inconsistency and the amount of TV that they watch and the amount of pasta that they eat and the fact that I filmed one of them hitting the other one, rather than intervening, just so I could ask Jay's opinion about it later, and the fact that they rarely bathe and the fact that sometimes I do want to crawl into the plumbing and escape and the fact that I never bothered to teach them to draw and the fact that we are always, always late and the fact that I get so angry sometimes when he hits me that my vision blurs and that by the end of each day I know I should be chasing them playfully upstairs but instead I'm checking my phone for a text from my husband to say that he's on his way home and he never is, he never is and that's why we never eat meals together as a family either.

All of this sits inside me, weighing on my stomach like a stone. It sucks all of my oxygen away.

Who wants to be the mother who need to call post-adoption support, four and a half years after placement? I feel like hitting up post-adoption services is like saying our family is falling apart, this adoption was a terrible mistake, you never should have let an awful mother like me get these precious, perfect children. 

This sounds over-dramatic, I know, but believe me - when you have children who are showing, errrrm, challenging behaviours, the world does not make you feel like a good mother. The screaming, falling-down tantrum from a child who is too old to be having a screaming, falling-down tantrum does not garner much public sympathy. Sometimes I can feel the thought bubbles floating above people's heads - why doesn't she just - that child should be - mothers these days - why is she letting that child - I know they are thinking these things, because sometimes they say them to my face. Parenting, for me, is a constant exercise in humility. Before I had kids, if I'd seen children behaving the way mine sometimes do, I would definitely have assumed it was the parents' fault. So I can't really be shocked when people assume it is mine.

Is it mine? I don't think it's mine. And this was the decision I had to reach, honestly, before I could pick up the phone and dial. I had to come to a point where I could say I am a good enough mother to ask for help. Although of course, I still fear that they are going to listen to what we have to say, peer at us over their glasses and say I've diagnosed the problem, Mr and Mrs Chapman, and here it is: you have no parenting skills. 

I think where I got stuck was this: I couldn't see any outcome other than you are defective parents or you have a defective child. 

But I love my son so much. He is wonderful, and I know that what we have together is pretty wonderful too, most of the time. I just want some help in knowing how I can be better at helping him, because honestly, he does need some help, and that means we do too.

Now, I'm hoping for a third outcome, although I have no idea what that might look like.

The first meeting is tomorrow. Please let this be a start.

I Just Have Two Things To Say

The last few weeks, I've pretty much been off social media altogether. It makes me feel weird, being so disconnected, and then I think shouldn't that be the weird thing, that I feel the need to be on social media all the time? It wasn't a deliberate detox (I'm not that organised) it's just that things got kind of hairy around here for a while and even I couldn't argue that getting up to date with my feedly feed was my number one, topmost, pressingest priority.

It's been kind of good, though. I've been wondering lately about deliberately cutting myself off from the internet for, say, a day a week. I was thinking that i could call it Media Free Monday. And then I thought I should write about that on my blog, and see who else wants to get involved. And then I exploded in a puff of irony. So anyway, I never quite did get around to doing that, but these last few weeks (novel month, followed by the aforementioned hairiness) have been an interesting experiment in living like it's the nineties - no web 2.0. In summary, if you're interested, living without social media hasn't killed me and it's probably saved a lot of time but it has been pretty annoying. (And that's as far as that particular social experiment will ever go in my house).

The hairiness I mentioned isn't anything interesting, by the way - I'm not pregnant, nobody has been arrested and the kids are fine. It's just been more health stuff, mainly for Jay. Did I mention that he needed to have a nerve blocking injection for his back? Well, he did, around the last day of novel month, and it's helping his back a lot (we think) but for the first time in his life he's been having what seem like migraines - unbearable headaches with nausea, dizziness etc. Apparently that can be a side effect of an injection in your spine - who knew? Not us, that's for sure, probably because the clinic never got around to sending us any information leaflets about the procedure. But anyway, the headaches seem a lot better over the last few days and our world seems to be tilting back towards 'manageable'. I want to write 'normal' but a few people have reminded me lately that there is no such thing as normal - what we think of as 'normal' is actually everything going well, everything going according to plan, and let's face it, that's the opposite of normal.

It struck me this week (I'm a very, very slow learner) that Jay's ongoing health concerns are a proper Thing in our lives now.  It's like an annoying family member, or an incontinent pet - don't know how to live with it; can't make it go away. It's why I've been quiet here, I realised - this isn't a My Husband Has Chronic Pain Issues blog, and that's been the biggest thing going on in my life.  In some ways, the 'when will this end'-ness of this all reminds me of our wait to become parents, but with one extremely large difference - it's easy to talk about, and it's no kind of secret. Everyone we know knows what is going on and is very sympathetic. People have cooked us meals. (Not dozens, but some). People have offered to babysit for doctors' appointments. And really, this understanding and support makes the whole experience so totally different. It's difficult, but it's not humiliating; it's not alienating us from our friends.

(Although of course I realise Jay may feel differently about this. If so, he can write about it on his own blog).

(Just to be clear, he doesn't have a blog).

(Not that I know about, anyway).

So, that was the first thing I wanted to say.

Here's the second thing: Novel month. Novel month was great. I mean, it was really, really, great. 

If you have ever looked at your life - with your work, your kids and all your other responsibilities - and thought what my existence needs is another insanely demanding job - then you should definitely, definitely do novel month. Writing 50,000 words in 31 days is a crazy, stupid endeavour and that's why it is so stupendously great. If you have sort of vaguely always wanted to write a book, but never been sure if you could do it, then this is how you find out. It is  so many words, so quickly that there is absolutely no room for self doubt or procrastination. You have to just do it and that is amazingly, incredibly freeing. No opportunities to think oh, maybe this is stupid because there's just no time to think that. There's no time to do anything except think and type, and some days there's really only time to type.

I had no idea how different it would feel from writing Hypothetical Future Baby - it was a totally different experience. Writing the first draft of a memoir took me 18 months, and felt like this:

whereas writing a novel in a month felt like this:

in other words, FUN.  I was terrified of writing fiction, but in the end it felt a lot more familiar than I expected it to, undoubtedly because I 'recognised' so many of the writing conventions. A few times, I thought 'oh, I know how to do this bit' and it's because I'd read I'd read 'that bit' so many times, in so many other books. I'd never written an arrest scene, but I'd read enough to have a general idea how it should go, and that sort of thing helped a lot.   Fiction is nothing short of everyday magic, and it was brilliantly fun to do a little bit myself.

Having said that it was fun, it was also hard hard work. I kept thinking that I just had to crest the next hill (ten thousand words, then twenty five, then forty) and it would stop feeling like work, but it never did. It always felt like work. Was it Hemingway who said that the cure for writers' block is to apply the seat of your pants to the seat of your chair? If it was, he was right.  Every day when I sat down and opened up my file, it took effort (lots of effort) and at the end of the whole process I was completely spent and exhausted. I got sick straight afterwards, and that's probably no coincidence. I think that because creative things can be fun, it's easy to expect that they should be fun, but there's a whole lot of typing and wrist strain that go with the few-and-far-between moments of oooh, nice sentence, Claudia. 

Paradoxically, I would say the whole thing was both less impossible than I thought it would be, and also much harder than I thought it would be.  I think the other women I was writing with would agree. (And if you do this one day, by the way, and I totally think you should, you absolutely need other people to do it with you. It makes all the difference).

I haven't read mine back yet. We're all going to read our own after forty days. And hey, it may be terrible (oh, please, let it not be terrible) but even if it is, I can always say that I got it done, and that I got to see these words:

and that makes the whole thing worthwhile. 

I Just Have One Thing To Say

And that thing is:

Yes, that's a shot of the bottom of my screen saying that I have written 42,694 words of a novel this month. I need to get to 50,000 words. 4 days to go.

I'm behind with everything. Especially emails, because emails require typing and if I have access to a keyboard I'm chained to Squeaky Clean: a story about friendship, love and ....laundry.

(I just made that strapline up, right now, as I was typing. It's pretty awful, but that's okay. That's the spirit of Novel Month). 

Anyway, I'd better get back to it. Nadine is about to try to get her parents back together. (Come on, Kenneth and Yewanda. I'm sure you two still love each other. You've got about 1500 words to sort yourselves out or your relationship is toast).

I think what I'm trying to say is: I'm not dead. But my arms may be about to fall off.

See you in April!

In Summary

Things have been complicated around here lately, so I'm summarising. 

Last Monday, I took our children to stay with their grandparents for two nights so that I could go to work while Jay was too incapacitated to care for the children. I got back home after an incredibly long rainy drive on the M4 and Jay said Claudia, I don't want to worry you, but I'm going to tell you something that's going to worry you. He told me, and it did worry me. It was also pretty gross, so I'm going to refrain from posting the specifics all over the entire internet, but two paramedics and an ambulance ride later, he spent that night in hospital. 

I got home from the ward at 3.30am, and I did not end up working on Tuesday. Instead, I went to pick Jay up. He called me from his bed - once at 7.30am (needing details of medication), once at 8.30 (by accident) and then at 9.30, to tell me he was being cleared for discharge. Could I come to get him? I thought you were getting a cab home, I said, blurry and still half-asleep. I can't get a cab, he told me. I'm far, far too stinky for a cab. 

Oh, well that's fine then. I said. I can't wait. 

By Wednesday his pain was pretty well controlled and he'd begun to wean himself off some of the more psychotropic medication. I quite liked the side effects of some of it - he was quite sincere and sweet for a few days there, sort of like finally having a spaniel.  I thought it was him just being really grateful to me for me being such an awesome wife while he was ill, but nope, turns out it was the drugs. He remembers nothing from the time he was on that stuff, which is awkward now because he did agree to me booking tickets to the States for a week in June on my own, even if he doesn't remember it now. (He did. I swear). 

Then Monday morning, we went to see the spinal specialist. He said Jay is probably going to need surgery, but he's not quite sure which surgery exactly. Recommended an MRI, which Jay had first thing this morning. (Sidebar - MRI in three days? How freakishly amazing is private health insurance!? We've only just found out that Jay has it through work and while I kind of disapprove of it in principle, it turns out to be pretty spectacular in practice). 

So yesterday morning, Blue accidentally locked himself in our hallway, possibly (okay definitely) due to some angry door slamming (by him, okay? By him!) He was there for an hour, screaming, while I called locksmiths and wiggled screwdrivers frantically into the latch mechanism. By the time he got out, he was catatonic with rage and shock and to be frank, I wasn't much better. 

Today I've begun to incubate a truly spectacular head cold. 

Tomorrow we have to go back to the spinal specialist for his opinion on the MRI and his recommendations about surgery. 

I feel like I could sleep for a thousand years. 

But Saturday? 

Saturday is March 1st so I'm starting a novel. 

Don't worry, I know this is a spectacularly bad idea. Writing a novel in a month was already  bad idea when I decided to do it a few weeks ago. Is this the dumbest idea I've ever had? I wondered. But with everything that's happened lately (and everything that is still going to happen) I can definitively say yes, this is the dumbest idea I've ever had. 

And yet! February has really stunk. I kind of suspect that March is going to stink just as much, but I'm doing the novel thing anyway. After all, I can't stop the stinky stuff happening, but when I look back to March 2014, I don't just want to remember discombobulation, cranky kids, a limping husband and the looming possibility of surgery. I want to remember oh yeah, that was the month I wrote a really bad novel. 

(obviously, all bets are off if Jay's surgery actually has to happen in March. I think novelling through that would cross me over from 'unstoppable to 'in serious denial about priorities' )I'm probably not going to blog much while it's happening - although I can't promise I won't be updating with breaking news like word counts  requests for help with naming characters outcome of consultations with the spinal specialist. 

It's not too late to join in - let me know on facebook if possible and I'll add you to a group where we can kick each others' butts into gear when we get lazy mutually encourage one another.  I'm really interested to see what genre people are writing in. Personally, my secret weakness as a reader is girly romantic comedy so that's what I'm doing. Here's my first sentence: 

Afterwards, Martha thought that it had probably been a bad idea to kiss her thesis adviser. 

See? Girly and trashy! (Spoiler - he does NOT kiss her back). I'm not allowed to write any more until we start on Saturday. 

Now - tell me... what surname goes well with Martha? 

Love Is Like A Human Heart

Yesterday, first thing, there were paramedics in my bedroom. Jay's back has been flaring up a bit this week and and then yesterday he woke up in paralysing pain, completely unable to move. "Should I call somebody?" I said, expecting a curt "no" from the man who hates to admit he is ever unwell, hates ever to make any sort of  fuss. Instead, he groaned "yes, of course you should call somebody," and I did - I called NHS direct, who asked me questions and then sent the ambulance.

A few days ago Jay and I were talking about whether or not he should be quitting his job to renovate a house. Now, fewer than 72 hours later, I was calling a friend, asking him to come straight away, throwing some clothes on my unshowered body and packing a bag of needful things for the hospital.

It turns out we didn't need to go to the hospital - not at that point, anyway. The paramedics gave him an injection of - I dunno, something - and told me how to arrange for a prescription of some stronger painkillers. We ended up at the hospital later that day for an X-ray, though, and I helped him into his hospital gown and wondered at how quickly his strong body had deteriorated.

The X-ray didn't find anything, which pretty much just means there's no fracture. He'll need an MRI and a ton of other stuff, of course. His GP, horrified by what she saw, tried to get the spinal surgeon to see him urgently but it didn't work, although it was gratifying to see a doctor so visibly shocked by his condition. It makes me feel a lot less guilty for how badly I'm coping with this whole situation. Most of us assume that, no matter how flaky we ordinarily are, we'd suddenly sort ourselves out if there was a real crisis. I'm sorry to report that this is not true - as I had feared, I'm terrible in a crisis. Yesterday I spent all day dropping things and panicking; I even got Jay's date of birth wrong when speaking to the paramedics. I also spent far too much time focusing on the fact that I hadn't been able to shower and berating the children for their troll-like behaviour. This is not helping! I screeched, repeatedly. Mummy needs to help Daddy! Stop biting each other and watch the television! It turns out they are terrible in a crisis too, but that is probably forgivable because unlike me they are four. 

I'm glad to say that Jay is much more comfortable at the moment, largely because he's off his face on very high doses of drugs. It seems the short term immediate crisis has passed, and now we need to think about what happens next. He will see the spinal specialist next Friday. Hopefully this will mean proper medical imaging and a proper plan of action. I never thought I'd be pleased for my husband to have an appointment to have surgery on his back but right now it would be a huge relief.

The next week, at least, is going to be tough. I realised, when I finally sat down on Wednesday night, that Friday was Valentines' Day. I'll be honest, this made me feel a little bit sorry for myself - this Valentines' Day, I think I can guarantee there won't be much romance from my semi-paralysed, drug-addled husband. I know it's a stupid day in any case and frankly he hates it but I usually give him a card anyway, just to watch him squirm. I haven't had a chance to buy one this year. I won't be making anything special for dinner, and there won't be any wine because I already drank it all.

Oh, Valentines' Day, you evil fiend. Did you ever make anybody happier? My little girl is just waking up to the presence of romance in the world. She saw some pairs figure skating on television and described it to me like this: Mummy, there was a man and a lady and they were doing ice sliding and I think they really, really wanted to get married. And then she smiled, embarrassed. She will be a sucker for Valentines' Day, just like I was. Am.

I don't want to tell her yet that love is not really like figure skating.

Love is helping my thirty-five-year-old husband walk down a hospital corridor, bent double, and love is stealing a wheelchair so he doesn't have to walk back.
Love is having ten minutes of down time, and being desperate to rest but drawing up a drug chart for him instead.
Love is a sincere Thank You from a husband who hates, hates, hates to be needy.
Love is the friend who comes over at seven am to look after two anxious, acting-out children.
Love is taking my boy on my lap and singing to him when I would rather do anything but, and love is the hug he gives me when he sees me crying.
Love is the online grocery order, the meal in the oven, the text that says I'm praying for you, the friend who watches my children at her house and then sends me home with dinner.
Love is even the kindness I give myself as I step into the shower, finally, choosing not to dwell on my failings but instead letting myself enjoy the respite, letting the water wash away my sorrow and my worry, at least for now.

Love is nothing like romance. Love is not made of red cardboard. Love is not a heart covered in sequins and glitter, pretty but disposable. Love is like a real human heart, messy and bloody and powerful.

This Valentines' Day, I may be short on romance but I realise that I am surrounded by love. Wherever and whoever you are, may you find love this Valentines' Day too - even in the most unexpected of places.

The Next Thing

Thank you so so much for all your very thoughtful comments on my last post. I've been pondering all of them and, since I agree heartily with what each and every one of you wrote, no matter how diametrically opposed, I'm now even more confused. Since I wrote last, Jay has put an offer in on a house (which he didn't get, because someone else offered more). He then went to an auction, ready to bid his heart out on any one of eight houses that were suitable (and he didn't get any of them, because another guy bought ALL of them) and  now he's kind of licking his wounds.

I'm not quite sure what's going to happen next.

Also, this is happening right now in my part of England- it's been raining constantly (and I do mean constantly) since well before Christmas, and at the moment the end of our street is kind of falling into the river Thames. We've bought sandbags. The park opposite (on the other side of the river) is basically a lake - the sand under the play equipment is completely submerged and the base of the slide is completely underwater, which is fun. If it weren't for all the toxins that live in floodwater (and the impossibility of actually getting to said park, due to the flooding) it sure would be a cheap way to take the kids for their first ever experience of watersliding. Oh yeah, also if it wasn't winter. And if it would ever stop raining long enough to want to go anywhere. And if my children could be trusted not to lick any strange objects they find floating the floodwaters. What is it with licking, I ask? My children will lick anything at the moment. Please, please somebody tell me they will grow out of it.

What with one thing and another, it feels like a strange time in our family life. The big project at work that I was bracing myself for got cancelled. Outside my window, the rain continues to fall. Inside my windows, it feels like things are frantically busy around me. Jay has been on the computer in the Lady Room constantly (CONSTANTLY!) trying to research all this property stuff. I've been trying to come to terms with what I think about it all, trying not to get cranky at him for hogging what was supposed to be my space in our house (did I ever end up blogging about my Lady Room?), trying not to nag him about finishing off the projects I want done around here before he skits off to do an entire other house (the bedroom lights, please, honey? From last year? And the bathroom sliding shelf that you designed but never built?) and sort of wishing that he could suddenly discover that actually, he really doeslove his current job after all and feeling like whiny privileged scum for even having these choices to make. And then I just feel frustrated because actually, it doesn't feel like my choice at all. I guess that's why there's no 'I' in 'Marriage'. (Oh, hang on...)

Anyway.

All that to say - Jay has been hogging my computer because of his preoccupation with his project. I've told him that he can have it for the rest of February, but come March 1st, it's going to be mine for 31 days, for my project.  Want to know more? I'll give you a hint:

All this crankiness and career crisis-ness is getting me down. I need to get my head in a different space, and this seems as good an idea as any. I'll write more about this later, but basically the idea is zero to rough draft in a month, starting with a blank piece of paper and ending with 50,000 words, repetitive strain injury and a huge sense of accomplishment. People all over the world do this every November, but that month stinks for me so I'm trying March instead.

I've never written any fiction, and this terrifies me. But in a good way. I think.

More details later, but it would be a ton more fun if there are other people along for the ride.... anybody else want in?

(Pre) Occupation

I've been completely preoccupied over here. There's a very simple reason - Jay has become totally focused on quitting his job and finding a gross  old house to renovate.

I know. 

Is he insane? Maybe. The probability gets higher when I include the fact that he currently has a slipped disc. You know - in his back. I can't help thinking that a fully-functional back would be helpful if he's about to embark on a career of manual labor.

But he wants to do this so badly. Personally, I can't imagine wanting to spend my days hammering and gluing, but he does. I mean he really really does. He doesn't want to make a ton of money, he just wants to do a good job and make enough profit to pay for his own labor.

But ugh, who can forget what happened in 2008? And I'm extremely financially risk averse, and always was even before that happened. All those Victorian novels I read as a teenager, probably - too much Dickens has given me a morbid fear of Debtors' Prison, even though I'm pretty sure it doesn't exist anymore.  The thought of any kind of self-employment has always terrified me. What would we do if we had to pay our gas bill and there was no money at the end of the month to pay it? I have no idea.  (I'm aware how privileged this all sounds, by the way. Please don't hate me for admitting that money is a very useful thing to have). My big fears are silly, I think - we wouldn't risk any money that we couldn't afford -worst case scenario- to lose. Obviously nobody goes into one of these projects planning to lose money, but we wouldn't be out on the street if we did. I don't think so, anyway.

So should he stay or should he go? Here's the pro/con list.

Things I hate about his current job:

• All his friends have left for other companies;
• It's a ninety minute commute each way;
• It makes him miserable. That's definitely my least favourite part. 

Things I like about his current job:

• He wears a suit, and he looks super cute in a suit;
• They pay him. That's definitely my favourite part. 

I hate that he is miserable at work. Right now I really love my job, and I wish he could have the same experience. I so want him to do something he loves with his life, and he really does love anything to do with houses and building - also, he's really good at it. I'm trying so hard to be a supportive wife, but right now I'm not entirely sure what that looks like.

The housing market seems to be moving again - right now, we can just afford to do this. If it moves too much further, we won't be able to (at least not without a lot more risk). This is probably his last chance to do the thing he's always dreamed of. I should say yes, right?

But what if his back flares up really badly? What if something happens and I lose my job? And even if none of that occurs, how will we survive for the length of this project without his income? When I first moved to the UK I lived on a tiny student stipend for years, and I know I can do it - eat nothing but dried beans and canned tomatoes - but frankly I also know it's freaking annoying and I'd rather not do it again if I can avoid it. I like the security - the easiness - of knowing I can buy a latte without having to save for it. Jay assures me that he's done the sums and it would all work but what if he's wrong?

Did I mention that my job is part-time?

I hate the risk, but what about what it would mean for him to spend (even more) years in a job he hates? I've always assumed that's just what you do, because hey, the kids gotta be fed, but what if it's not? Is my hesitation prudence, or is it just selfishness because I'm not the one who has to go into an office and do stuff I don't want to do?

Should I be the voice of encouragement or the voice of reason? I mean, I'm not going to forbid him to do it, but if the house he's looking at now doesn't work out, should I be scouring the real estate pages for the next one or just saying a silent prayer of thanks? What would you do in this situation - not what you think sounds like the right thing (that's follow your dreams, right??) but what would you actually do?

Curious minds want to know.

Mirror

My son and I have almost nothing in common except large heads, asthma and a shared love of music. My daughter, on the other hand - different story.

She's just like you, said a friend at church. She's so...... verbal. 
Ummm, okay, I said, thinking it's nice of her to do the whole 'you're so alike' thing, but it's really not necessary. We don't have to be alike to be a family. Hmmmph. 

Then a few days later, Pink and I had a stand-up fight about angels (don't ask). Why am I having an actual fight with a four-year-old? I asked Jay, and he said because neither of you can admit that you're wrong. (This was a dumb thing for him to say - surely I didn't have to admit that I was wrong, because she was wrong. That should have been obvious).

Later: She doesn't like to go with the flow, does she? said Jay. She's very contrary. She kind of reminds me of... you. 
What do you mean? I asked. Watch, he said.

Over lunch, Blue asked me Mummy, is it fun being a grown up? and I said Well, some of the time it's fun, Blue. It's good to eat as much chocolate as you want sometimes without anybody stopping you, and it's good to know how to drive. But being a grown up means working, too, and sometimes it means that you have to do things that you don't want to do.  
He looked sad, and said Oh. I not like doing things I don't want to do. and I agreed - That's right, Blue. Nobody likes doing things they don't want to do. 
Pink scowled at us both and said  That's not TRUE! I LOVE doing things I don't want to do.  And then she started to cry, clearly because nobody understands how complicated she is.

Also. Blue was talking to me a few days ago about what it would be like being inside a shark (he'd been watching the Octonauts again). Would it be smelly? (yes it would be smelly). Would it be scary? (yes it would be scary). Would it be dark? (yes it would be dark). Then he told me that he did not think it would be very much fun to be inside a shark. I said that I agreed, that I didn't think anybody really wanted to go inside a shark. Then Pink, who I didn't even realise was listening, roared I do. I want to LIVE INSIDE A SHARK FOREVER! 

Of course you do, Pink.

My mother observed : she does find it hard when other people get things she wants, doesn't she? 
She didn't have to say that I'm like this too, because I know I am and I hate it about myself.  And she knows me well enough to know that I know.

Over dinner on Sunday, I told them that a friend of theirs was about to start school*. It's so exciting! I said. When you go to school on Tuesday, Jillian will be there! 
And Blue said Hooray! Jillian is my best friend! (Right now, he has a lot of best friends).  Pink said Why is she at school? and I said Because she has turned five and she, of course,  wailed with unhappiness. Why is SHE five? she asked. Why aren't I five? 
And I said ummmm, because she was born before you, Pink and she cried and cried, refused to eat any more food in protest, and yelled I WILL NEVER, EVER, BE FIVE!!!  It transpired later that this is, obviously, Jillian's fault.

Another fun moment with my girl recently:

Me: High five, Pink. Good job answering that question. You could not be more right! 
Her: YES I COULD! I COULD BE MORE RIGHT!

I really have no words for that.

She's stubborn, and annoying, and she can't bear to be wrong. She thinks she knows everything, she will fight about anything and does not let facts get in the way of a good argument. In other words, she really is just like me. It's kind of unbearable.  Am I really this difficult to live with? I asked Jay, and he whispered Yes, my sweetheart, you are, except actually he didn't say that with words, he just laughed like a maniac and nodded his head.

My mother adores my girl, but she finds it hilarious that I have to parent her. She really is the only child I've ever met who is as stubborn as you were, she told me. Then I guess we're a perfect match, I said, and she just laughed, probably because she's actually come out the other side of parenting Pink I mean me. I asked her for tips and she just said Prayer. Lots of prayer. 

I knew we weren't getting a blank slate when we adopted, but I really, really didn't think I'd be getting a mirror. Adoption has all kind of unknowns, but I thought there were a few things I did know. Surely the one thing you're not getting yourself into, when you adopt,  is that weird situation where you see yourself and all your flaws reflected in your children. Surely the one thing you can guarantee is that your children will be bratty and annoying in new and unique ways - ways that your family has never seen before?

Apparently not.

You have been warned.

totally, totally, totally worthi t. 

*Oh yeah, I never followed up on the school thing, did I? Our kids are enrolled at a new, small - read, tiny, Christian school that Jay and I are helping to set up. Bet you didn't see THAT coming - well, neither did I. We both volunteer there one morning a week, and the kids go along when we do. I'm currently the music teacher, which is so hilarious that I cannot even begin to tell you. 

No Crib For A Bear

Well, it seems that once again this is not the year for a serious post about the meaning of Christmas.
Instead, here is 35 seconds of my children singing, because unless you're their grandmother I doubt you can take any more:


May all your bears have cribs - not just at Christmas, but tonight and every night, and may nobody tell you you're doing it wrong. I think you're doing a fine job.

Merry Christmas to all - it's been lovely spending this year with you.