365:8 Mommy-Fied, originally uploaded by texasgurl.
I have three chickens. I love them so, but they are work, work, work, and I swear to god is practically a science trying to manage everything that must be managed just getting the basics done. You know: food, hygiene, sleep, transport. And I do what it takes to the get the job done. I can get dressed one-handed while nursing the baby, haul my ass uphill three times a day with her on my back and my four-year old in the stroller, and I can cook dinner, supervise bath time, take out the trash, fold a load of laundry and nag my husband all at the same time.
But–and I admit this freely–motherhood alone is not enough for me. What, you say? Doing laundry and making dinner at the same time isn’t enough?
No, it isn’t.
So, I find other things to do. As you can see. But I’ve been thinking lately about appearances, because no one knows me here. Who do they see when they look at me? When I’m the woman on the left I still feel like the woman on the right, and sometimes I’m caught off-guard when people make assumptions about me that are so far from who I think I am that it’s almost insulting.
For instance, the week that Girlish started school we stopped off at the park on the walk home. This particular park is on the way for many of her classmates, and there’s a group of parents that spend 20-30 minutes there most days after school. I was on the periphery of a conversation, where people were discussing work and family, trying to find balance, blah blah, and one of the fathers said something about how he was still trying to “write that book.”
“A book?” I said. “What kind of book are you writing?”
“Ah, it’s fiction,” he said, and turned immediately away from me. He didn’t say, “You wouldn’t understand.” But he might as well have.
And I thought, okay, this guy doesn’t know me–doesn’t know anything about me. Why would he just dismiss me like that? Was it the baby strapped to my back in the rainbow wrap? The boy sleeping the buggy in front of me? The fact that I wasn’t at work? It got me thinking; would he have dismissed me so if I’d been the woman on the right?
I don’t know the answers. Maybe he was just nervous about talking about his book. Or his idea for one. I don’t discuss my work with every parent I meet at the park, either. But it brought home for me how I like the me that dresses up and goes into town to get something done. I like how people see her and make more flattering assumptions.
I’ve missed her, and I’m glad she’s coming around again.
365:7 Underground Trains Are Red, originally uploaded by texasgurl.
Underground trains are red, people. My shoes are green.
Hello Stacy. There’s an acceptance packet on its way to you, but not sure how long Priority Mail to London will take. In the meantime,
below is the acceptance letter from Peter Turchi, and attached is everything else in the envelope, including the 65-page Program Handbook.
Please do let me know when you get this — I fear all the attachments might make this email a SPAM suspect. Best,
Amy
Amy Grimm
Assistant to the Director
MFA Program for Writers
Warren Wilson College
365:4 A Gift, originally uploaded by texasgurl.
So, I spent too much time yesterday getting my site transferred to its very own url. And here you are! http://family-of-five.com! Isn’t that fancy? Aren’t you impressed with my techno-savv abilities?
Naw, really, the transfer part was easy, but getting the site to look the way I want will take another week or two, I imagine.
Got a haircut this weekend. That was a big step for me. All the salons in my neighborhood look a little run-down, which had me imagining myself with some kind of grandma-hairdo. Which wouldn’t do.
But there was a girl in a pub with a cute haircut who brought me a cup of coffee, so I said, “Excuse me, but I have to say that your hair is just darling. Did you get it cut around here?”
Turned out she got it cut right next door, and now I have her exact same haircut, pretty much. As did the woman who got her hair cut before me. No seriously, it’s cute–even if the stylist is a one-trick pony I’ll probably go back there again, at least until I find someplace better.
Now, I’m sure you’re wondering, “Why are you talking about your haircut so much in a blog post that doesn’t include your head?”
Well, Snotties, the answer is that I liked the photo above because it was more welcoming for the first post on the new site. And also, because I’m annoying.
Oh, alright, fine.
In England, think is just as often a noun as a verb. You don’t talk about it, or think about it, you “have a chat,” or “have a think.” Seriously. I’ve been told twice this week to “have a think,” and I sort of like the sound of it. Sounds more tangible than “thinking about.”
For instance, when trying to get a haircut I was told at noon that they could fit me in that day, at 3:00. “Let me have a chat with my husband,” I said, “and I’ll call you back.”
Earlier in the week I was told that there was space for Boyish to come to nursery for the morning session, and also space for him to come during the afternoon session, but um, no space at dinner (English for “lunch”). Could I perhaps trek up the hill and down again, with the four year-old, feed him, and then bring him back up the hill to school 45 minutes later?
Oo, let me have a think on that. I’ll let you know what I come up with.
See? I’m speaking English. You might not understand me if you’re from “the States,” as we say around here, but then again, you people need a bit of training in proper use of the language. From the founders. So, here goes, (again).
The sidewalk is the pavement, and
A guy is a bloke. An anonymous guy is John Doe to you, but Joe Bloggs over here.
There is no Jane.
If you want Sprite or 7-up, order lemonade; and if you want actual lemonade—well, too damn bad—no one seems to have any idea what it is.
Your pants are not pants, they’re trousers. And if you have them altered, don’t ask for a cuff when it’s turn-up you want. Turn-ups look smart with your hideous London shoes (see above).
Or you could wear your trousers with trainers (otherwise known as sneakers), which wouldn’t be smart. But then again you wouldn’t have to change shoes if you wanted to play crouchettes after work.
Wait—I mean squash. Which is also juice. If you want to eat yellow crook-neck or zucchini squash, you must ask for crouchettes. That’s French.
Which is English for squash.
I started an internship today with English PEN, an organization that promotes literature and literacy across cultures, advocates for writers that have been imprisoned for their work, funds translations of foreign works into English, and is one of the oldest human rights organizations in the world. I’m helping out with their largest annual fundraiser, the PEN Quiz, which is a swank night when all the London publishing and media glitterati get together and compete for prizes and bragging rights by answering questions in categories like literature, history, and current events. The director of the organization is beyond charming, and the events director—the woman I will work with most closely—is a poet. Need I say more?
To get there I take the overland rail from my neighborhood to London Bridge, which is not just a nursery rhyme but also a tube station and an actual structure that spans the River Thames. Then I descend, down, down into the depths of London on the Underground, into a world of artificial lights and swirling sounds—rushing trains, murmuring voices, the muffled clip-clapping of shoe heels on hard floors, clear notes streaming down hallways as the occasional musician takes advantage of tunnel acoustics.
On the Northern Line, the platform is always crowded. Short tunnels no wider than doorways feed the platform off the main hallway, and I stand in one of these, as commuters crowd in front of and behind me. I can see the packed train through the people in front of me as it arrives on a whoosh of air; the doors open and the crowd parts just enough to let people off, and only the lucky few standing right behind the yellow line will make it onto the train before a recording of a woman’s voice announces, “Please stand cleah of the doors. This train is departing.” Then I am at the yellow line, the train so close I could press my hand on the Plexiglas window without fully extending my arm. It begins to move, gathering speed until it is no more than a red blur, and when it ends there is moment of vertigo where I am sucked into the empty space behind it.
When I emerge from the Tube, at Angel, I ascend the longest escalator in the system, 318 steps, and just like that I am in Islington, a hip north London neighborhood where there are shops and theaters and publishing houses. And although I am not paid, I am on my way to work, and even though the day is only just begun, it feels like a very good day indeed.
Because when you’re 70 you’ll be old, and half way to old is middle-aged. But you look good for an old woman, I think. I mean a middle-aged woman. Do you feel old? I mean middle-aged? Sorry to break it to you, but it’s all uphill from here. Or downhill. But one thing it never is is dead level, which would be boring, anyway.
Babe-ish sends a hug, Girlish sends her love, and Boyish wants to come over tonight for cupcakes. Drink a glass of champagne for me. Toast yourself. Say, “To my beautiful sister, who means the world to me.”
Cheers.
from Sven Birkerts. That’s all I’m sayin’.
Nervous, originally uploaded by texasgurl.
Yesterday was Boyish’s first day of nursery school. Nursery here is often attached to a primary school, so he’s attending school just downstairs from Girlish, and wearing a uniform just like hers. Which works, because he worships everything she does.
So he’s off to school in his uniform, fussing about his shoes and his shirt. Many days, he wages war with his clothes, which includes spinning in a circle, tugging and screaming on the offending article until he is able to rip it from his body. Once freed of the shirt, underwear, socks, shoes or pants that have infuriated him, he flings them across the room. Once he threw them out the window, but because I am a hardass I have put a stop to that.
Anyway, because he was admitted to the nursery the third week of school, there were no white shirts in his size at Sainsbury’s, which is the large supermarket/Wal-Mart-wannabe here. So his shirts are too big, and um, if I thought he would let me tuck them in so they wouldn’t hang down to his knees, I can FORGET IT. The deal we struck is that he has to wear his “jumper” (that’s English for sweatshirt) over the too-long shirt. No jumper, we tuck the shirt in.
So far, that’s working–but don’t get me started on shoes.
All this week they’re “phasing him in,” so he’s attending from 9 to 11:30, and then next week we’ll hopefully be in for some full days. He would be happy to go all day, of course, but I get it–the sissy kids need the phase-in, so phase in we must. Which means three 20-minute trips up the hill to school this week, every day, and three 15-minute trips back. It’s a pretty steep hill, did I mention that?
Here’s a picture of the Head Teacher’s big bell. I’m afraid to ask her if I can have a shot of her ringing it. I’ll have to butter her up some. But that’s for later, right now I’ve got pack Babe-ish in the buggy and head back up the hill. Anything for my chickens, right? And all this uphill walking is bound to be good for my ass.
