New Year Traditions

Since I was little, we have always had the same breakfast on New Year's Day.  Hoppin John and cornbread.  My mother told us we'd have a day of good luck for every black eyed pea we ate. 

I am, however, picky about my cornbread, and for ages, I had a worn computer print out with my perfect recipe - no corn kernels, no sugar, just pure southern goodness made from corn meal and buttermilk.

In the move, like many other things, the recipe has gone missing.  I have been trawling through recipe sites and wishing I made cornbread more often, so I would just remember the quantities.  I can make a loaf of wheat/spelt bread with my eyes closed, but here I'm stymied.  All the recipes that call themselves "the best" have added nonsense.  Bacon.  Jalapenos.  And sugar.  Buckets and buckets of sugar.  It's not a health thing, I just want nice, savoury bread.

Finally, after a long, long time searching (yes, since you are asking, the search was longer as I had to stop Itsyboo eating chalk, convince Miss A that we don't run around with only our pyjama top on and make snacks - which meant I totally lost my train of thought), I came across this website, which has some pretty good-looking cornbread recipes.  The first one in the comments section looks particularly authentic.  I've got American-style measuring cups, and can convert Fahrenheit to Celsius.  And the website seems to have some other pretty nifty bread recipes for when my family gets tired of the spelt and flour loaf from the River Cottage Baby and Toddler Cookbook.

Do you have any New Year traditions other than popping corks at midnight?  What are your childhood memories or favourite New Year foods?  Do you have any strong feelings about cornbread?

Burning down the house

So I came closer to reducing the new house to a pile of ashes and rubble today than I'd really like to think about.  No permanent damage done, apart from my saucepan, but it was certainly an unforgettable lunch.

We have been in the house for one month as of today.  We are still slowly unpacking, have been using the hot tub and still haven't totally figured out recycling.  We've been having a lovely long holiday as C has two weeks off work.  We have baked, made ornaments, gone to soft play, and enjoyed long country walks out the back of the house (one of the contributors to our near-disaster today).

We have done a bit of entertaining, and today had our lovely friends Monisha and Deba down from London.  We went for what was supposed to be a quick walk, forgetting the maths of toddler legs.  I left a pot gently (I thought) simmering on the stove.  The walk extended, the pot boiled dry, and, while the stove top survived unscathed, the slow-roast shoulder of lamb did not get its sticky pomegranate glaze.

I fear I must accept that I am not a domestic goddess.  Nigella would never fill her house with smoke from a carbonised pot of "meaty pomegranate juice."  Martha would have got the evidence out without alerting the guests - I had rushed home to check on lunch while they lingered in the garden but they caught me opening all the doors and windows to let the smoke escape.  C rushed to the rescue but I had to let him down that the danger was past, the saucepan was no longer heating and that we just needed to get a wind tunnel going.

Lunch was uneventful after - clearly there is no way to top billowing plumes of smoke issuing from our facade.  How on earth will I keep our next guests entertained?

Normality (almost)

The decorators have cleared out, we are attempting to put the house back together and put Christmas decorations up while preventing the children from opening the presents.  Miss A, because she wants presents, Itsyboo because it's paper that he can EAT.

Watching Strictly Come Dancing while drinking G&T.  Must confess that I am ABD on this...

Mwah to you all.

Odegra

Emboldened by two successful trips to London last week and driven slightly mad by the continuing state of my house, I decided to hotfoot it in to town for the Fuzzy and Friends Christmas party.  We left early so we could do a little park playing and a little shopping before boogieing down.  I dressed Miss A in a Santa suit and Istyboo in an elf suit to ensure appropriate levels of festivity.

I will tell you now that I spent nearly five hours in the car today doing the round trip 60 miles.  Who doesn't love driving in the UK?  I was well and truly M25'd (thank you Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett for enlightening me why).

As I had plenty of time for thinking, it made me realise that my new year's resolution for 2013 has got to be to meet local mums.  It's really hard to leave a fantastic network like the one I had in SE22, but I need to build a new one here unless I buy enough BP shares to offset my petrol expenditure!

One and a half days until the decorators go for Christmas.  They still have another week of work to do, but we have mutually agreed that it will take place when we are away for a week.  Repeating my mantra - "it will all be beautiful... it will all be beautiful... it will all be beautiful..."

28th candle

Jeff Thompson was not the kind of guy you could forget about once you met him.  "Mayhem" to his friends, he was over seven feet tall with shoulders nearly that wide, long curly hair and an impressive beard.  But although his physical presence was striking, it was his kindness and gentleness that made the real lasting impression.

I had the privilege of working with Mayhem at Scarborough Renaissance Festival in 1994.  I played a member of the Scottish court, while he was the king of the Scottish games over which I presided each day of the festival.  Watching him toss the caber, launch stones and throw hammers, his physical strength was impressive.  He often put that strength to use giving the biggest hugs of my life, lifting my feet off the ground in dizzying greetings.

Those hugs are my main memory of Mayhem, as well as one night while we sat around a fire in the Faire campsite, his arm around my shoulders, content in the presence of good friends, singing songs and enjoying the company.  Jeff was a real gentleman and I always felt safe when he was around.  Most of us did.

In the autumn of 1994, I went away to university and in ten years of travels from Austin to Boston to London, I rarely saw Mayhem any more.  So I was stunned when, ten years later in December 2004, while reading the news during my lunch break, I clicked an article about a shooting at a Damageplan gig in Ohio and read that their head of security, Jeff "Mayhem" Thompson, was among the four dead.

I didn't have to read any of the subsequent articles to know how Mayhem died.  He was the guy who, if his friends were in danger, would do anything he could to protect them.  I knew before it was confirmed in the press that Mayhem had rushed the gunman.  But even 7'1" of strength and heart can be felled by a tiny bullet.

I do not believe that the killer's motives were ever established.  I do know that he was mentally ill, and that he had a gun.  That gun allowed him to take my friend away from me.  I will never have another hug like that.

Gun violence touches all of us, from those of us who feel empathy and pain with victims' families to those of us who have lost loved ones to senseless acts.  The answer is not more guns but fewer.  The answer is treatment of mental illness rather than stigmatisation.  Gun control laws won't bring Mayhem back, but they will make America safer for my family, my friends, my loved ones.

Don't have to live like a refugee

I have occasionally wondered if I were the type of person who could live off the grid, eschewing material possessions, squatting with like minded people and leading a more simplified existence.

I tell you now that I could not. After living through one of three weeks of the epic decorating project, I can't find anything. Boxes are getting shifted from room to room willy-nilly and even things I've unpacked are never to hand when I'd like them. I can only find two pairs of trousers, I have limited access to my washing machine and I am distressed, I tell you.

The rooms that the decorators have finished are miraculously transformed. The house will be gorgeous when it is done. But oh how I wish that I could escape to St Tropez or on Safari until it is all done.

Newtown

I don't think any parent could hear dreadful news like that coming out of Newtown, CT without briefly imagining themselves in the same situation. I have been fixated on my stash of Christmas presents, carefully chosen over several weeks, hidden from view until they can be wrapped and nestled under the decorated tree. I turn them over in my hands wondering what I would do if my children were no longer here to receive them. Would I get them away from me as quickly as I could? Or would I keep each item, cherished carefully as a memory of the holiday I had planned rather than the grim reality?

My daughter starts school nursery on 8 January. I am so grateful that is in a country where personal handguns and assault weapons are banned. There are people who I love and respect who will disagree vehemently with me, but I cannot understand how 20 dead kindergarten pupils can be acceptable collateral damage against an individual's presumed right to own whatever weapons they like.

Guns are tools for killing. They do not make society politer; they foster fear and mistrust. They allow bad situations to escalate into awful messes. They turn accidents into tragedies. If you are a hunter or a sportsman, fine, keep a rifle or a shotgun for your leisure pursuits, but handguns and assault weapons have no place in civilised communities.

I pray for the victims of the shootings. I pray for the survivors who have witnessed horrors. And I pray for the families of those impacted by the shooting. And I pray for courage and wisdom for our leaders to make difficult choices to help prevent any other parents having to experience the unthinkable.

Are we there yet?

We are now in the new house. Move day was cold and clear and everything seems to have survived, including us.
We still feel as though we're staying in a holiday home. We've only unpacked a bit more than the basics as our epic decorating project encompassing pretty much every flat surface in the house kicks off Monday. It does prolong the painful bit of settling in, but the house will be properly ours when it when it is done.
Logistically, we're slowly getting in to village life. Miss A had her first playgroup today and will start nursery two mornings a week in January. Itsyboo is recovering from various plagues and is still a happy boy.
Still feeling like we're waiting for things to start "for real" - I really hope that properly settling in post decoration does the trick.

A fond farewell.

Faster than I had believed possible, our house is packed, we have bins out front reserving a space for the moving truck and we have one last night to spend in East Dulwich.  We never really had that time when you know for sure you're going to move so you say goodbye to the area. We're here and then we're gone.

I had a wonderful farewell lunch with a friend from my first maternity leave, for whom I must give thanks to the NCT.  I had an emotional goodbye with fantastic second maternity leave friends, for whom I will forever be indebted to the EDF.  I think it was the perfect last day here.

I think we're going to be without broadband for a while, so I may be a bit quiet, but rest assured, I will let you know how things are once we have reached the other end of the tunnel.

We have exchanged!

Moving on Friday.  That is all.

Oh, the laughs...

I strongly suspect that I am an unwilling party to a talk radio prank.  There is a DJ somewhere who decided to see how far he could push a house selling and buying chain until someone had a nervous breakdown.  The DJ set an arbitrary timeline that was just plausible and then got a lot of people to commit to his made-up cause.

Then, the DJ got to have real fun.  He was chortling with his listeners this morning.  "Can you believe it?  It's the day before the day I insisted that I had to move and two days before my compromise moving day.  And I have come up with yet another technical yet arbitrary reason not to exchange.  And no one is asking difficult questions yet.  This is genius!"

No, we have still not exchanged.  Yes, the deadline for Friday completion has passed.  We were begged for an extra hour, so by my watch, there are 15 minutes left in which we can exchange and complete on Friday.

Are you holding your breath?  I'm not.

What will I worry about when I can't worry about this anymore?

You have probably already guessed that we still haven't exchanged.  I know, it's almost a running joke now.  We have set a firm deadline now of tomorrow lunchtime, which, if missed, means we will have to renegotiate a completion date.  I don't want a new completion date.  But I've been assured every single day for the past week and a half that today is definitely the exchange day, so I really don't believe that if I put all of final arrangements in place, the exchange will magically happen at the last minute.  The erosion of trust is now too great and reassurances that "it will happen Tuesday before 11 o'clock, honest!" no longer inspire confidence.

The uncertainty is such a heavy weight; it is my constant companion at the moment.  Waking and sleeping, it occupies a huge portion of my mental energy.  I dream about it, I check my phone obsessively to see if there's any news.  I phone my solicitor and estate agent daily, begging for some understanding of what on Earth is going on.

I start to feel bitter because it wasn't our idea to set a super-quick completion date at the beginning of the process.  It wasn't us who said "November or else".  And yet we've deconstructed our lives and given notice to all the people who needed more than an offhand "see ya later" on that basis.  And now we are potentially stuck with no furniture, no childcare, no cleaner and still no move date.

I despair, folks.  If it weren't for my family and friends, it would be even worse.  Instead of just feeling constantly sick to my stomach, I might actually spend all of my time in tears.  Very useful.  Since we put our house on the market in August, my life has felt terribly mutable.  I can no longer imagine what it's like to walk through a day reasonably confident that no major life changes are looming, as when one is sick and one longs for the unappreciated days of good health when one's throat wasn't sore, one wasn't coughing and sneezing and dripping snot.

I keep telling myself that it will be over soon, that this whole period will fade from memory like childbirth.  When I look back it will be a fuzzy time of "not terribly pleasant" memories ending in a triumph.  My extended contraction-fake-labour with Cillian only lasted a month, though, and this has been going on so long that I now feel like a drained husk.

It will be over soon.  It will be okay. 

My trust in my own pep talk is starting to erode...

My superpower

I have been trying to keep busy while I wait for the news that we have exchanged contracts (still not yet...), lest I go completely potty sitting next to the phone and or refreshing my e-mail inbox.  There are, of course, lots of things to do in preparation for the move, but we've got to the point where most of them are contigent on our move date and I don't want to book them until I am absolutely certain exactly what day things are happening.

Occasionally, though, I do things that aren't exactly move-related, just for fun.  Today, I went to Ikea (kind of fun...).  Ikea on a weekday is a vastly different country to Ikea on a weekend, and the only way I find it tolerable.  I browsed through all of the showrooms, got some interesting ideas on things we could do in our house, was impressed by the inexpensive wardrobes and picked up what I had come for plus a few random extra things that caught my eye.  I also found C's Christmas present, which was a pleasant surprise.

When I checked out, my bill came to £19.10.  That's right, I spent an hour in Ikea and spent less than £20.  I definitely think I get a medal or a certificate for that.

A good night's sleep

In the new house, we have a room that will double up as our study and guest room.  Since it will be a study much more than a guest room, we didn't want a full on bedroom suite.  I am not a huge fan of sofa beds as they are comfortable neither as sofas nor beds.  I was worried about getting a blow up mattress since sometimes we have guests from America who stay for a week or so and I didn't want to be responsible for ruining their backs for life.

I got fairly excited, though, when I was browsing the John Lewis website (as you do) and discovered aerobeds, which are basically high end air mattresses.

As afternoon slipped into evening yesterday, my very lovely sister-in-law seemed so very comfy that we invited her to stay over.  It's a rare treat to get an extended visit with her - she has a high-flying career and does a lot of travelling so catching up is always exciting.  So she had the pleasure of being the first one to try out our snazzy new self-inflating guest bed.  Her verdict was that it was really comfy, though a little cold to sleep on.  I confess, that may have been my fault as the heavy-duty duvet was in Itsyboo's room and he had already gone to sleep for the night.

I'm glad to know we will have a stylish study and even more happy to know that we can put our guests up in comfort.  Just wait till we tell them we have a hot tub in the new house, too.

Silent Sunday

Moving on

Between putting the house on the market and the actual move, it had felt like our lives were in stasis. Focusing on what comes next rather than the moment I'm in is one of my bad habits that I've been rather overindulging.

Our Thanksgiving meal today was the perfect antidote. Sitting around a table with our London "family" we feasted, laughed and wept together. We renewed our bonds of friendship and enjoyed great food and drink. All apart from Miss A, who, under C's supervision ate nearly a whole large bag of crisps then announced she was going to take a nap.

I feel like we've now properly said goodbye to the house. Bring on the move next week.

Keeping positive

Well, I wish I could offer you some good news, but I'm afraid that we still haven't exchanged.  I am so wound up about it, I am about to chew my own foot off like a rat in a trap.  Except that I'm not physically in a trap and having only one foot wouldn't do anyone any good.

In an attempt to keep myself from starting to run around in circles like a troubled dog, I have been looking for the silver linings in the situation.  Surprisingly, there are a few. 

Our main point of dispute with our buyers is now a moot point.  They wanted us to move out on the 29th, we couldn't move in to the new house until the 30th, they insisted we let them make us homeless for a night (seriously, they are a young couple with no kids or pets, we have two young children and a cat - who do you think would find it easier to find a place to sleep for one night?).  We have to have five days between exchange and completion, so the earliest everyone can move now is the 30th.

Moving out and in on the same day means we don't have to board the cat next week, we don't have to stay in a hotel, and, as the Ambriento van wasn't at the Northcross Road market this week, I have one more week in which to enjoy delicious tacos.  If it stretches out further, and there are still spots, we may even get to go to the awesome November supper club at Suzanne James.

I'm going to think about even more nice things while I continue my Thanksgiving dinner prep.  Today is pie and stuffing day.  Tomorrow is the main event.  Woohoo!

Ladies and Gentlemen, start your ovens!

We are just getting into prep here - the turkey is brining and the baking underway for an expat Thanksgiving feast on Saturday.  It's the last big lunch in this house and I'm getting a little teary thinking about it!

I'm so thankful for all the wonderful people in my life, especially my husband and children, who keep my head from exploding.  I'm thankful for our lovely home, our lovely new home, and the fabulous communities that surround us.

A special thanks to Lindsay, who very kindly babysat for us last night to let us have a "farewell to East Dulwich" dinner out.  We chose the Palmerston, but I wished we could also have dinners at Franklins, Green and Blue, and Hisar, places that we have loved during the time we lived here.  I think that might have injured us, though, and would have really stretched Linsday's patience, since we may have been out all night trying to fit it in.

I wish you all a very happy Thanksgiving and many more years full of things to be thankful for!

It drags on...

Dear purchasers of our house, why, oh, why complain ad nauseum about us not being ready to exchange yesterday when you yourselves were STILL not ready to exchange today?

Exchange should be tomorrow now.

Today's crises: House insurers playing silly buggers, trying to say goodbye to wonderful people, Itsyboo has chicken pox.

Today's resolutions: House insurers sorted out (sacked one, appointed a new one), QUARANTINE, no saying goodbye to people until next week.

Next points to consider: what do I do with a well toddler when I have to keep baby away from all things civilised?  Will anyone come to Thanksgiving now that we are officially a plague house again?

If it can go wrong...

Today has been one of those days when I want to run through my house screaming "Great big, heaping, sweaty piles of BOLLOCKS!"  I feel like my problem solving and negotiation skills are being tested to the utmost and I have been on the brink of saying that this is just not worth it at least once.

Our buyers are being a bit difficult and our sellers are reacting irrationally to any requests for additional information.  Our solicitor has the wrong end of the stick about a really minor issue and has been beating a dead horse, delaying our exchange of contracts over something entirely unimportant.  Our movers booked us on the wrong day (not my fault - I have the e-mail trail to prove it) and are busy on the day we need them.  Nine days before our move, most other companies are booked up.  Istyboo has a really painful new tooth coming in and is wailing and drooling like a basset hound.  Miss A is weeping as eBay auction winners come and take away her "baby furniture".

I have wept, I have wailed, I have hyperventilated, but I have told our buyers that they really need to get over themselves, I have reassured our sellers that we understand that the issue is a very, very minor, I have made our solicitor (I think) understand that we can just pretend that private drive doesn't exist and I have found new movers that can do the move on the right days.  I have cuddled Miss A into submission.  Poor Istyboo is still miserable, but mum can only work so much magic...

I think we exchange tomorrow.

I need a very, very large and potent drink.  And a two week vacation on a tropical island to recover.

On ambivalence

I have moments when I think giving up work and moving from our lovely home in East Dulwich is a lunatic idea.  Usually these come when I am strolling down Lordship Lane or Northcross Road, popping into the fishmonger, running into friends on the corner, or just wandering across Peckham Rye Park to visit my favourite local cafe.  I really, really love living here.

Then I remind myself that, if we stay, I will not be on maternity leave and it will really not be the same.

I also get nervous about not being an alpha-mummy (taken from the Times blog I used to read before the paywall went up) any more, balancing high-powered career with beautiful, well-behaved children.  My last couple of conversations with work have been pretty positive, and it's hard to walk away from something that I know that I can do well when my managers are telling me that they would really like me to come back.

My latest moment of clarity came two days ago, though, when the estate agent called to say that our buyers want one more look at the house before we exchange contracts.  For my American family and friends, I will explain that English property buying is not like back home.  From them moment you agree a price with your buyer, the process normally takes around three months until you move.  The scary part is that no one is legally committed to the transaction until the last two weeks of this time, when both parties have exchanged contracts.  For the first 2 1/2 months, anyone can walk away or demand a different price without losing anything more than their survey and lawyers fees.

The sheer panic I felt when I heard that there was still a possibility that our buyers would pull out helped me realise that the move is definitely what I want.  They are coming to have a look today and we are frantically attempting to get the house (which has been partly destroyed as we get ready for the move - in theory this is our 2nd last weekend here before moving day) into a state that won't terrify our buyers.

So I ask you all to wish us luck - I'm sure it's just a formality, but I don't think my blood pressure will be back to normal until we hear that they've signed their contract!

It's a Gender Thing

There have been many studies that show that men tend to perform better than women on space relations tests.  The practical domestic impact of a facility with space relations is that you can get more dishes in the dishwasher and fit more luggage into the car.

In our household, the gender profile is reversed.  C is the main dish-doer (I do all of the cooking) and will often tell me that the dishwasher is full.  I'll move a few things around and, hey-presto, it will be half full again.  C grumbles about my dish re-stacking, but, let's face it, it means a lot less hand washing.

I have always loved making things fit together, and, more than anything, having appropriate places with the right sized compartment to put things.  Which has led us to our very first furnishing argument about the new house.

We will have a garage.  C will be cycling to the station.  I will be cycling along country paths.  Miss A, our nearly-three-year-old, will be cycling anywhere that we let her.  Before we know it, ItsyBoo, our 9 month old, will also have a bike.  For those counting along at home, that's four bikes.

I want a bike rack, so we can neatly stack our bikes along the wall and avoid the garage becoming a glorified bike shed with tangled handlebars and pedals creating an obstacle course for the unwary.  C thinks a rack is a waste of time and we should just prop the bikes up and hope for the best.

I may have to give in on something else (bye bye, my little chicken coop), but I will have neatness!

The story

It all started with the closure of one of my favourite shops on the lane.  Soup Dragon, a kids clothing and toy store, lost its lease and was about to be unceremoniously turfed out.  ED was changing.

At the same time, I couldn't bear the idea of being separated from my gorgeous babies when I went back to work.

My husband C and I started talking.  We love our house and we love the area we live in.  We have friends here, for the first time in London, who we met in the community.  Our kids have friends.  There are parks and playgrounds and toddler groups.  But East Dulwich is expensive, and we couldn't afford the house on one income alone.  We found out how much our house was worth now (jaw-dropping moment and totally not what our mortgage company was telling us), and started looking at what we could afford if we sold our house, moved to commuterville and de-leveraged.  Another jaw dropping moment.

So we sold our house and we found a house to buy and weeks passed in this crazy way of buying and selling houses in England.  We're close to exchange (at which point, finally, everyone will be legally committed), and the reality that we are going to move to Kent is sinking in.

I'm going to chronicle our moving process, which is just now kicking off and is about to move to mach speed once we finally exchange those pesky contracts.  Wish me luck and I hope you enjoy the ride.