The talk with Kay was soothing. Standing in our tank tops. Breathing in the scent of eucalyptus and saltwater. A total stranger excitedly pointing out all the coves and beaches and bays along the seafront for me. We talked primary schools, extracurriculars, politics, the economy, and the weather. The sentences peppered heavily with the stereotypical "no worries" and "Look..." (as in "Well look, you know you're going to want a North or Northwest aspect to catch the sun and the breeze just right." or "Look, there'll be lots of mums to meet up with at school or at Little Nippas and..."). Whether it was the mom-of-four-grown-boys authority she carried or just the laid back way in which she talked I found myself obeying. Looking. And not worrying. There's just something about a walk that cures all ills. Or at least clears the head a little. Kelly taught me that. Traipsing around the English woods and farmer's fields stomping out all our worries. Today's walk was along the beach and then the cliffs and then through the scratchy brush. The briny eucalyptus smell filling my nose. The sand exfoliating the bottoms of my Birkenstocked feet. The crashing waves and the crazy new bird sounds. The gorgeous flowers and being startled by what I'm sure was only a medium sized spider by Australian standards but pretty stinking huge in my book. The more I looked, the less I worried. The less I worried the more I saw. Sea Dragons. Bright colored birds. Turquoise waves. Loads of smiles. Everyone smiles a lot here. This is going to be okay. Good even. I'm getting excited!

The blahs

Maybe I'm too tired? Maybe there's just been SO much that it's hard to think about another trip, another set of decisions, another million things on my to-do list. Maybe it's that I just did this about 5 minutes ago? Or maybe I don't want to go? Surely that's not it. I'm not sure. I actually have no idea. But it's kind of alarming me. This total sense of blasé. Surely I should at least be stoked by the moments away with my husband and a Business Class international flight?!?! Instead exhaustion reigns, and a strong case of the can-we-just-get-this-over-with-already-ies. I'm pooped. The unknown looms. My boys don't really want to go. It's completely on the other side of the world. It's going to be a ton of work. I don't know what we're going to do for school for the boys. I'm just...I'm...blah? I'm also feeling a bit embarrassed. Maybe I'm acting a bit like an entitled brat? I'm probably going to love it. Plus I'm very aware of what a blessing this is. I think mostly just need some sleep. Some time to write. To reflect. To explore a bit. Read an adult book. Have some adult conversations. Thankfully I'm about to get to do that. Phew. I need it. Going to try to locate my adventuresome mojo.

Roots and Wings

My sunglasses are on the counter. Silly place for them when it's this bright and hot. Evidence I still am not completely acclimated to life in Colorado. That or I'm just a total airhead. Switch--we head to the other side of the street. Desperate for a little more shade. It's that hot--stinkin' hot. Been a while since we walked the school route. Middlest's friend lives right by the school. "Shake-a, shake-a, Mommy! Shake-a, shake-a!" Littlest loves this spot. Right at the top of Columbine. There's a house whose tree puts off those wonderful seed-pod instruments that all toddlers love. We picked them up every day on the school run. Shaking our way down to the school, then discarding and shaking our way back home with a new one. He can't quite understand where they all have gone. I try to explain they'll be back in the fall. Then find tears as I realize we won't be walking down to Sandburg for school again this fall, so I can't prove it to him.

 The new raised vegetable beds across the street are fat with shoulder-high veggies. Gorgeous. Neat and tidy rows in neat and tidy boxes with neat and tidy pea gravel paths in between. Seems like they were tiny little seedlings about 5 minutes ago. I dream dreams of a someday garden like that.

 Summer. It's finally here. I feel the spring move into the summer--the first season I am present enough to really feel. I think it maybe takes a year to acclimate to the seasons of a new home. Something about this particular season change resonates deep in my being.

 My Spider Wart is withered and doesn't want to open up it's blossoms. They hang there, sad. Hiding away the pretty purple flowers from the too-hot sun. My Corn Flower and Mums didn't make it. The Sedum got chewed up. Try as I might the Ice Plant won't bloom or spread and be the ground cover I had hoped for. But it's the strawberries that draw tears. They've spread & grown. Two or three berries last year. A dozen or more this year. Spreading their tendrils, growing big, tall leaves. I can tell they'll cover quite a bit of the ground I intended them for next summer. This is the part that makes me cry. While Littlest gleefully picks the bright red ones and asks to pick every single still-green one. I carefully unwind the Morning Glory and pull it up, and I cry. I won't be here to harvest these next year or to keep the morning glory from taking over.

 The whole team gathers in their speedos and red & black suits. The big kids stand in the inner circle. I remember some of them from 5 years ago or so. Cutie-pie middle schoolers then. Now big, tall, strong. The little brothers, sisters, and neighbors circle up around them with parents and coaches looking on. Only about half of the cheer is distinguishable, but it's not the cheer that brings the tears. It's the used-to-be little kids leading it. Swim team has broken my heart this year. Every time the 6 and unders get in the pool I feel that burning behind my eyes. Every time the highschool-aged jr. coaches cheer the littler kids on I fight the lump in my throat. This is what roots must feel like. Watching your little ones become the big ones in the middle. Beside the other little ones. Under the tutelage of big ones you watched grow from cutie-pie stage.

 My plants are putting deeper roots down. Growing taller stalks and putting on more flowers. But not us. Here we go again. Pulling our roots up. Heading off to a new adventure. To a place where I don't understand the seasons. Heck--their summer is in December for crying out loud! To a town where the school-run is unfamiliar and there may or may not be "shake-a, shake-a's." To a neighborhood where none of the children's chubby 5-years-ago faces will be familiar to me. Where no one will remember my boys when they were first learning to swim or when they swam their first relay.

 Wings. We do wings really, really well. Adventuring and exploring and going out into the world. My adventuresome spirit loves this. Revels in it. Grows and expands. Roots though. Where does one find roots if not in place? In familiar neighbors? In the familiar flow of season into season? Looking out at gardens growing in soil one knows and nurtures year to year? My mothering spirit mourns the loss of roots. Worries. Wonders. Cries.

 Roots. How do I give my children roots in this crazy expat lifestyle?

English Camping Day 1...

June 2nd, 2012 English camping, Day 1.
Thoughts. In no particular order:
 -SO glad I brought my wellies no matter how much room they took/take up, and no matter how silly my girlfriends thought I was.
-So that's what's meant by "chucking it down."
 -Totally glad it rained. So hard. I don't think it really counts as English camping if it doesn't rain at least part of the time.
-I hope it only rains part of the time. -That guy has the HUGEST white man fro I have ever seen. That is downright impressive.
-Scott and I are getting pretty good at Colorado camping, but we are pants (aka we suck) at English "glamping."
-Glamourous Camping = glamping and boy howdy is this ever. We have a refrigerator and an electric tea kettle for crying out loud. Wowza.
-Who would have ever though camping in a big-ol' farmer's field would be fun? The English apparently. One thing I will say--it's really nice not digging out rocks and pinecones from under the tent.
-My goodness gracious these Brits fit a lot of crap into their little bitty cars. It's impressive. Larders (aka pantries)? Tables, chairs, rugs, drying-rack whirly gigs!, shelves, toys, wet suits, beds complete with sheets and duvets instead of sleeping bags and trail pads, stoves, ovens, fridges, tea kettles (of course), not to mention the kids' scooters, bikes, etc.
-Notably missing are the tvs and dvd players and satellite dishes of the American RV parks. Loving that. This is all a little crazy, but that is ridiculous.
-I like glamping a lot more with an 8-man tent that I can stand up in. The 4-man REI backpacking tent just didn't work for English camping last year.
-Those bungie cord peg thingies that Mark gave us are friggin' awesome. I can't wait to show Steve. -Steve would love this. It would crack him up and drive him crazy and he would love it. -I think the delivery truck for Chinese take-away is a little excessive.
-There's something about being able to walk from the campsite, along the narrow little English lanes, through the lovely thatched-roof villages, to the sea. Something magical and am-I-in-a-movie and gorgeous and...
-Devon is gorgeous.
-Cream tea (scones, Devonshire cream, jam, and a cup of tea) is a MUST tomorrow if possible. We are in the land of clotted cream after all.
-The buntings crack me up. I love the whole patriotic, excessive and adorableness of the Queen's Diamond Jubilee. I can't wait until the local village festivities on Monday. I hope we go to the barn dance. Barn Dance? Seriously? What is this a Hollywood movie set? YAY!
-We ate Bolognese for dinner. How hilarious and fancy and yummy.
-I quite like being able to go up to the hut-thingy to wash the dishes. That works just fine for me.
-I think I've had more wine tonight than in ages. Maybe the sea-level thing makes me hold my liquor a bit better? We'll see tonight I guess.
-It's sort of silly and funny that we would come spend our vacation time and money to get soaking wet in freezing cold, foggy old England instead of spending the same hard-earned money and time in say, Mexico? And...I wouldn't trade it for the world. These are the best friends and this is a grand adventure and I love soggy, cold old England. They do after all have Devonshire cream and Diamond Jubilees for crying out loud!
-3:45 am is STUPIDLY early to get up and I am unbelievably exhausted but not at all sleepy. Think I'll go up to the hot showers (yeah. hot showers. camping. i know, right?) and take a warming-up sort of one and go to bed.
-Can't WAIT to see what kind of craziness we get up to tomorrow!!!

 Two more thoughts after going up to pee and brush my teeth. I decided against the shower:
1. I love the English phrase, "Old boy." I can't quite understand the proper usage or context, but it always makes me grin.
2. The girl at the sink next to me must have been a world-champion teeth brusher. We started brushing at the same time and for some reason I decided it was a sort of race. Dude. She brusher her teeth for a LONG time. I don't think I've ever had cleaner teeth. Don't worry though. I didn't let her win. I waited a whole 20 or 30 seconds after she spit to do the same. I thought I was going to gag, but there's no way I was going to let her win. Hmm mmm. Nope. I beat that crazy English chick fair and square. USA! USA! USA! Sorry...all the Diamond Jubilee-ness has me feeling patriotic, but I'm not English...so...

It mine London...

I'd say I was romanticizing except the water still tastes like crap. If I remember correctly the journal entry on day one of the London house hunting 2008 trip read something like: It smells horrible and the water tastes like crap. Ah how times and hearts change.

All jetlag aside there are is permagrin on at least 4 faces as we disembark at Heathrow. "THIS is my FAVORITE airport in the WORLD!" Middlest exclaims. I love that he has been to enough worldwide airports that this does not seem like an outrageous statement. I love even more that Wanderer's reply is, "So far..."

Cigarettes, factory smoke, and freshly mown grass. That is how London smells. I fill my lungs and let out a long sigh. "Home. It smells like home." "It is," Wanderer says. "One of 'em anyway."

Their favorite (or is it favourite?) playground, Peter Pan Park --aka the Diana Princess of Wales Memorial Playground--is less than a 5 minute walk away, but they have commandeered a willow tree. Branches that bend all the way to the ground. Providing shelter, transportation, and of course--weaponry. It's a cave. Or a ship? I can't tell. I know that there are swords and a secret language. English accents (hilarious). Robots, and I've heard the word "bad guy" several times--the English version "baddie" never having been incorporated into the boy's lexicon.

It's pure magic to watch them. Lost, as they were yesterday as well, in a world that defies boundaries. It apparently defies arguments as well. Most days 2:30 pm has seen me break up about a gazillion of these. Physical and verbal. Today I've only heard one. One that they worked out without intervention. All the while including and looking after Littlest. What in the world?

How is this possible? I'd say it was the glory of summer vacation except school ended a over a week ago and last week found me counting down the seconds til school started again. I know it's not the food. Not only has everything been the stereotypical British bland, but Middlest's eczema is flaring and Biggest's sound effects are constant--a sure sign of too much gluten and dairy after only 3 days.

Maybe it's the same air that makes my hair awesome. Seriously. I haven't washed it for days and yet somehow the jetlagged bedhead helps. My hair freakin' loves London.

Whatever it is, I'll take it. This crazy concoction that infuses every moment with magic and as Biggest pointed out yesterday evening, makes the boys "the best behaved we've maybe ever been in our whole lives!"

Grass stained covered shorts, honey-sticky shirts, and a toddler so sleepy he looks as though he might start hallucinating any moment. Any happy moment.

Yesterday we did The Museum of Natural History, Kensington Garden deck chairs, half an hour at Peter Pan Park then Mexican food at Wahaca in Covent Garden. Which cracks me up. Arguably, Denver, where we live for the moment, is one of the best Mexican food cities North of the border of Mexico. London of course being one of the worst. But for nostalgia's sake it had to be Covent Garden Mexican food.

Today was supposed to be the Science Museum, Kensington Palace, Peter Pan Park, and a picnic with Dad. Instead we are following the supreme rule of travel with children (or perhaps just of travel, period): Roll with it. When one finds the perfect tree under which to adventure one MUST NOT pass it by. Plans be damned. Even Littlest seems to understand this. He's not too fussed with the tree, but the un-mown tufts of grass beneath? Little boy perfection. Littlest loves this English park feature of leaving grass long so much that he keeps bending down to touch it and exclaiming, "It mine grass, Mommy!"

And maybe it is. Maybe that's the magic. That here in this far away but so close to our hearts land there is something "mine" all around.

Our hearts perhaps?

Flying

"WHOA!!!!" His enthusiasm was annoying the we're-3-and-a-half-hours-late-out-of-the-gate passengers. Loud. Uncensored. Pure delight. It was totally cheering me up. "OH! WHOA!!!! LOOK!! AAAAAAAAHHHHHH! Oh my gosh!!!! LOOK! We're up in the CLOUDS!!!! Look! Oh! Oh! Oh! Look!!!" Six-ish, and down-in-his-soul digging it. A vehicle the size of a fricken school bus had just lifted off the ground, and it was blowing his mind.

Mine were digging it too. Biggest nearly made himself puke at home this morning. Checking in at 15 minute intervals with the report on how long til we got on the plane. Littlest didn't even need the plane. He thought Hasabo's taxi was the best car he'd ever ridden in. When it finally arrived he declared take-off "fan-tas-ic!" Middlest though. The change was visible. His whole body relaxed. His shoulders slung back. This was not just familiar territory. This was TURF. His turf. Halfway down the escalator from security the change took over his entire countenance. He was on his way to an airplane. To an adventure. Hells yeah. There was a lot of fist bumping.

It took me a minute. A few minutes. Okay--it took some smoother sailing at 30K feet, a 15 minute nap, and 2 gin and tonics. But now I'm delighting too. Delighting in the magic that makes 2 wild men absolutely cool, calm, and collected once the fasten seat belt sign turns on. Delighted at the wonder of the six year old one row back. Delighted at the two year old's fascinated "Look at the fields, Mommy!" (Don't even get me started on how amazed I am that he knows he's looking at fields below us let alone that that is the word for it).

Delight. Wonder. Amazement. It's so easy to lose sight of that. Especially in the face of delays, and grumpy children, and grumpier fellow adult passengers. It's no use getting grumpy now though. Not this early into the game. There's school done. One week of swim team. And now Leg One. Denver to Washington, Dulles. Dulles to London, Heathrow. Heathrow to the Southbank. The Southbank to Warlingham. Warlingham to Devon. The Sea. Our friends. The places that feel like friends. Home. Home in the far-away place. Then Woking. Then home again. Though my educated guess says it will feel less so than it did this morning. Swim team again. A few meets. Perhaps packing and shipping? Perhaps preparing to store everything? Playing with the cousins. Happy Hours with our friends. The 4th of July fireworks and pool festivities and decorated bike-parade. Then Leg Two. A drive to Montana. Maybe take in a National Park on the way. Friends. Family. Friends who feel like family. Then Leg Three. Or is it Four or Five or Six or One Thousand Seventy? Wanderer and I off to Sydney. To find a house. A school. A new place to call home. Then a return to Denver--will it feel like home by late July? Some swimming at the pool. Some Grammie and Grandpa and aunts and uncles time. Some Rockies baseball. As much Mexican food as we can consume. Then the Final Leg of the summer. The biggest adventure. The one that takes us to a new land. Terra nova.

 What will I choose? The grumpy bog of deadlines and timeframes and do-lists and delays and...and...and...the in-my-face demands of all the ANDS. Or the pure delight of adventures that take me off the ground, up into the clouds, body relaxed, shoulders slung back..."WHOA!" on my lips and a lot of hells-yeah fist pounding.

A Toddler's Meditation

“Whoa! Buddy, look. The ants are making their hills. See? They dig some dirt, bring it above ground and set it down. Isn’t that cool?” 

How can I have never noticed that? How can I have missed that the hills are made from the insides of the tunnels? I probably knew, but somehow I never noticed. Coolness. Today I am cherishing this parenting gig.

Shoes laced and tied. Sports bra on. I thought we were going running. Drop the bigs at school, hit the trail.

“Play park little while, Mommy? Play park little while?” I love his two year old rhetoric. Quite persuasive. “Absolutely. We’ve got time, friend.” Round and round on the tire swing we go. Back and forth on the “motorcycles.” Up and down the steps and the slides until the slides are deemed “too hot!” and he rubs his sleepy nap-time eyes and I plan our run home. 

“I walk, Mommy? I walk?” and he climbs the steep hill while I push the empty stroller. We stop to watch the men mow the grass. Discussing each implement. The mower, the weed eater, the sunglasses the men wear. “What that, Mommy?” he asks and somehow I don’t mind explaining over and over. Each explanation a calm and gentle mantra lulling me into a toddler state of mind. 

His little hand feels so squishy and warm in my big one. Tugging to be let go just before the sidewalk, not after we are safely aboard. He is that type of child and I chuckle at his push for independence. “That water, Mommy!” he squeals as he splashes through the puddle. “I wet! Uh oh. Socks. Wet.” He’s delighted that he made them wet, but doesn’t particularly like the way it feels. I’m wishing I had other shoes. I love to splash in puddles, but I don’t have on the right shoes either. I skip that one. 

We kick the gravel that has escaped the school yard. We run our hands, then fists, then elbows along the chain link fence. It feels nice. More lulling. Until soon the run is forgotten, and I am on two-year-old time. Noticing. Stopping. Walking very, very slow. So slowly that the 15 minute walk home becomes an hour long one. A stop and smell every flower one. An examine every anthill one. A slow, steady meditation. I am completely present. Only in this moment. With this child. With this environment. To-do lists and runs and heaps of laundry forgotten in the spring sunshine with my precious boy. 

I learned when one takes an hour to walk that walk one must put a beanie on in the shade because the change in temperature is quite noticeable. That the breeze actually feels cold, not cool, when your skin isn’t rushing through it walking fast. Also that there are a LOT of pick-up trucks and Toyotas in our neighborhood. Littlest loves vehicles. 

Many have suggested lately that I learn to meditate. To help with stress. Clear my mind. Rest my heart. I agree. It would be helpful. How do I know? I took an hour to walk with a two year old .8 miles. One of the most pleasant meditative states I know.