Moving Day

I actually wrote this blog a couple of weeks ago.  No broadband has forced me to wait until today to post it.  I have some new things to write about soon as well, so stay tuned!

I had the best weekend.  It was such a delightful time!  I spent the weekend watching my boys play together and chatting with friends and enjoying the beautiful weather and also moving!  It seems so funny to declare a moving weekend completely delightful but it certainly was--from start to finish.  Oh well, minus the cat pee incident, but I’ll get to that shortly.  

We thankfully had a bit of relocation money socked away unspent.  So we hired a ‘removal company.’  They came and packed everything Thursday.  Extremely efficient and polite.  We used Casey’s Removals--in case you’ll be ‘moving house’ in the Kent/Croydon area any time soon.  I cleaned and directed and picked up keys to the new house and then freaked out about cat pee.  Oh man.  

We have the cutest new little house, but the previous tenants had cats.  Nice enough cats.  We met them.  But goodness me, those suckers can really get their stink on.  Specifically on the carpets and curtains.  So we came over Thursday night to check out the new digs and I had a hissy fit about pee stains.  ‘Wasn’t the carpet supposed to be cleaned?  Maybe it was and it didn’t come out!  What gets cat smell out of carpets. Probably nothing.  Maybe it’ll never come out!  Maybe we’re destined to be in toilet-smell land for the rest of our lives!    Call the management company right now.  What do you mean they’re closed?!?  In the morning then!  Wait, the movers will be to our house before they open!  Oh no!  The movers come tomorrow to load in all of our furniture and there’s nothing to be done.  It’s hopeless.  All is lost!  Someone shoot me!  Just shoot me now and put me out of my stinking misery!”  The words ‘blithering idiot’ come to mind.  Oh dear.  Scott just sort of looked at me with that half-cocked grin that can SOMETIMES be so charming and politely mentioned that I may have lost my mind.  I think the implication was that I was being a little high-maintenance.  I think that everything else was going so smoothly with the move that I was grasping for something to freak out about.  That’s what one does when one is moving, right?  Oh well and...it really stank. 

Anyway the efficient, polite movers came Friday morning and moved everything in.  The management company said the carpets were cleaned and suggested Febreeze.  I politely declined to mention it smells like ass and gives my youngest son croup.  I don’t want the smell covered up!  I want it GONE!  But on to the pleasant, delightful part.

The weather Friday morning was absolutely gorgeous.  Bright, sun-shiney, warm.  I wished my flops weren’t packed.  The boys ran like wild men in and out of the empty house, around and around the back garden and the front driveway.  They decided the movers were bad gangsters and they were Batman and Robin faithfully defending Gotham.  Sunshine does something to people--especially when one is deprived of it for so much of the time.  Those stodgy, reserved English men played along!  The four of them had just a ball.  My favorite moment of the day though was leaning out the windows I was cleaning to see Bridger and Caid sitting in the sun on the back patio.  Each with a sandwich in hand, Bridger reading Caid a magazine.  So sweet!  

One of the huge blessings of the weekend was the friends that helped out.  That can be one of the best parts of a move.  The sort of ‘barn-raising’ atmosphere.  Folks around packing, loading, unloading, unpacking, cleaning, patching walls, and eating pizza together at the end of the day.  Our move over here lacked all of that.  Movers one day to bring everything to Montana for storage.  A week later another set to bring everything to England.  Us alone with the boys in an empty house wondering when and if we’d ever see our stuff again and what in the world we’d gotten ourselves into.    Then living in an empty house (that we moved into sight-unseen) for almost 3 months.  Learning to live without and wondering why in the world we’d shipped so much stuff when it did finally arrive.  It was all very lonely and surreal.  

This weekend was so different though!  My friend Victoria picked the boys up at lunch time Friday and they had a blast playing at her house all day long.  We finished up the day eating dinner with her and her hubby at their flat around 10:30 pm.  It was such a great night!  Then Saturday afternoon John and Paul showed up and helped put shelves together, and put things up on walls and unpack and play light-saber fights with the boys.  We finished the evening with beers and yummy dinner and a great time talking.  By the end of the day Sunday we had all but 1 box unpacked.  Unheard of!   

Somehow it feels like we’ve finally moved here.  We spent six obligatory months in moving purgatory and we’ve finally paid our penance and can get out.  Last week our house in Denver finally went under contract, we leased the condo for the next 12 months, and we moved to England.  It feels like our life here is finally beginning.  Now if I can just get the cat smell out of the carpets...

My Uncle Tom...

...just turned 60. For his birthday we were all invited to Tahoe to hang out and celebrate. I sure wish I could have gone. Hanging out with that side of the family is nothing but laughs and hugs and hilarity. Every single time I do it I think, “Man, I gotta do that more!” Course hanging out with that side of the family also makes me say things like ‘gotta’ and ‘course.’

My sister says we’re half redneck. Half because one of our parents is a redneck. I suppose in some circles that’s a derogative term, but to me it just means hard workin’, fun lovin’, down-to-earth, genuine folks. My favorite song on the radio as a little girl was ‘Gimme a, gimme a, gimme a redneck girl.’ I remember riding in my dad’s Jeep listening to that song. I must have been 6 years old or so. Fun times.

We were invited to write something for Tom in lieu of our presence. I meant to and meant to get around to it. I thought about it for weeks. The problem is simple. One of the best things in the world is making Uncle Tom laugh. Any image my mind conjures up of Tom always include a beer in one hand and a huge smile on his face--probably because he was laughing at something someone said. He’s a ‘hoot’ and he gets a kick out of everybody. So back to the problem. I couldn’t think of anything funny to say. I wanted to come up with some hilarious rendition of this story or that. Really roast the guy on his 60th. I couldn’t think of one funny or mean thing to say.

Uncle Tom calls everyone ‘baby.’ It’s his favorite term of endearment--which is just such a great phrase for it. Cause when Tom says it you really do feel dear. It makes you feel like a million bucks.

Uncle Tom loves his wife. Delights in his children. Is good to his family both immediate and extended. Shows up. Works stuff out. Works hard. Treats people with genuine kindness. Loves a good beer and a good joke. He is just plain old wonderful. I’m so lucky to have him for an uncle.

I was thinking at Gran’s funeral how sad it is that we wait until folks are dead to say all the good things about them and reminisce about how much they mean to us. I was thinking how it’s just silly and ridiculous. Not more than a few hours after this thought Uncle Tom said to me in a rare quiet moment in the living room, “Cori, you are one of the best kids I’ve ever known. You’re a good kid. You’re a good niece. You’re a good daughter. A good mama. Seeing the way you are with those boys I imagine you’re also a good wife. I’m proud of ya.” Leave it to Tom.

Uncle Tom, you are one of the best men I’ve ever known. You’re a good man. You’re a good uncle. I don’t know about son, but I do know you’re the most amazing son-in-law I’ve ever seen). You’re a good daddy. Seeing the way you are with Bard I’ve always known you were a good husband. I’m proud to know ya. And I’m ever so lucky to be one of your ‘babies.’

Happy Birthday, Uncle Tom. Many happy returns of the day!

Global Biking

I am a creative woman. Different. Unique. Not meant to fit a mold made for anyone but me. No one will think like I do. Love like I do. Mother or birth or cook or dream or even scream out at the world like I do. Others may be similar, and I may enjoy or detest their company as a result. But no one will ever be quite the same as me.

So then why in the world am I so concerned about how everyone else is doing it? The illustrious ‘thing’ that they are all doing? The more important question however, and the one that plagues my heart and disturbs my dreams: Why am I so concerned about how everyone else thinks I’m doing?

Motherhood, man. The constant balance of embracing your unique self and trying desperately to ignore the evil voices that seem to constantly whisper, “Are you sure that’s how you want to do that? Are you sure you’re doing enough? Oooooo...lost a few votes for Mom of the Year on that one!” Or my personal favorite, “Wow, don’t you wish you could be more like ___________?” Feel free to fill in the blank with names from my best mama friends to some lady in front of me at the super market who didn’t freak out at her kid. Never mind that her kid was not the one who just knocked down an entire display of boxed cereal, but still.

Just before the holidays, I came to the sudden and shameful realization that a lot of little boys around here that were younger than Bridger already knew how to ride a bike. I was overcome with guilt. “WE NEED TO GET ON THAT!!” I ever so graciously yelled at Scott. I wasn’t so subtle at communicating where I thought the primary responsibility for that bit of teaching lay. We spent several minutes talking about it, and being the persuasive rhetorician that I am I quickly had him wallowing in guilt with me. Some parents we were! Some legacy we were leaving. What were we spending time as parents doing if not teaching them essential skills like riding bikes!?! We’d spent so much time fixing up houses and focusing on moving that we’d somehow missed the forest for the trees. We were failing our children--big time!

Did I mention we decided over the Christmas break to homeschool the boys? A decision driven by several factors including: our naive underestimation of the incredible cultural adjustment moving to England would be, our desire to open up the opportunity to travel with Scott to his various assignments world-wide, and our concern over some behavioral and health issues we saw flare up in the boys that seemed to die down significantly after only a couple of weeks off of school. Never say you’ll ‘never’ do something. Karma is a bitch.

Overall I’m really enjoying it. It’s leant a cool focus and sense of purpose to my ‘mom-ing.’ It feels good to teach my boys to read, and count and add. I love cooking class and taking walks every day with them. I know there are some folks who think I’m weird, but those voices don’t haunt me. The voices I fear are the ones that whisper about how much better a homeschooling mom I’d be if I were ‘craftier’ or ‘earthier’ or if I had one bone of time-management skills in my body. I am not crafty. I only aspire to be earthy. And good Lord I don’t know how in the world it gets to be 7:30 every night without me having crossed even two things off my list.

I know, I know...I don’t need to be crafty to be a good mom or a good teacher. But...I subscribed to two homeschooling lists and well...these women are either dying natural wool yarns with blueberries to weave their own peace flags or teaching their children an instrument or even building chicken coops from scratch. I just feel, well...urban, first of all, and hopelessly inadequate. On another less earthy list it seems everyone has an ‘educational philosophy’ dialed-in and does 19 lessons a day all tied together by a central theme and all perfectly poising their children to attain nirvana, a full-ride to Oxford, and a firm standing in the global marketplace. I, on the other hand, spent 2 hours and about 2 dozen pieces of paper trying to figure out how to weave a construction paper heart ‘basket’ as a little craft today. I consulted FOUR different websites, swore a lot, and started balling before I did finally figure it out. Bridger was over it, and Caid just wanted to have the one I made rather than bother with his own. Big shocker.

Days like today are a roller coaster of questioning and feelings of inadequacy. Elation in the morning at Bridger reading (did you hear me say, READING!) me books in bed and our half-hour tickle war before breakfast. His exact quote after that was, “I hope we homeschool till I’m twelve.” Then the agony of craft time and that same child’s mumbled hints about the fun crafts they did at school and why don’t I call up his teacher and ask her or better yet send him back to school where they get to do really cool crafts EVERY day. Sigh...he wouldn’t perhaps be mirroring would he?

The night after the guilt-fest about the biking we were talking with our boys about the upcoming year. We posed the question “What are a few things we’d really like to do before 2009 is over?” I started with suggestions like sledding or skiing. Caid said he wanted to go to Spain and to Africa. Bridger said he wanted to learn at least one more language. “Maybe French,” he said, “or China.” I looked across the table at Scott and started to grin and cry at the same time. Maybe the boys didn’t know how to ride bikes, but maybe we weren’t failing so miserably at the legacy thing either.

p.s. I am happy to report that the boys are both riding bikes beautifully after just a few short lessons. Granted Caid stops by plowing into the closest fence or bailing off his bike and Bridger is the proud owner of a biking accident scar on his left cheek, but hey! we’re gettin’ there!

Let it snow, Let it snow, Let it snow!

It snowed today. It was what we who grew up in the Rocky Mountains would classify as a ‘skiff’ of snow. But hey...beggars can’t be choosers. We had so much fun. The boys and I got dressed and donned our English-style snow boots, aka Wellies and had a great snowball fight. Granted you had to scrape the snow right off the top of the patio or grass, but it was awesome snow ball snow! We were soaked and tired and hungry by the time we came in and about halfway through oatmeal prep Bridger shouted, “WHOA!!! Look, look, look! It’s snowing again!” Big, huge, gorgeous flakes. I love that. I can’t begin to describe how much good it did my soul just to watch those flakes accumulate on the branches.

I have been longing for snow. Aching for it. Watching the facebook status updates on all the snow dumping in the US with nothing short of lust. I want to go up to Winter Park. To make the curvy trip up the mountain with flakes falling from the sky. I want to sled at Cherry Knolls Park. Day after day we landed there last winter. Every single day of the Christmas holiday. It was epic. I want to go to the sledding hill over in DTC. Careen down the hill listening to Bridger just giggle and giggle. Then listen to him brag when we arrive back at the top about what a big boy he is for pulling the sled all the way back up the hill.

He is a boy built for snow. It was so fun to watch he and Caid just delight in it today. Funny thing is, late last night Bridger went outside and came in saying, “It smells like snow out there.” What six year old do you know who can identify the upcoming precipitation by the way it smells?! I thought for sure it was simply wishful thinking. He and his dad have been playing quite a bit of ‘skiing’ lately. They start in the living room and take snow cats or helicopters or snowmobiles up to the top of the mountain. Then they strap their skis to their backs in the entryway and troop up the stairs. After a long hike they strap their skis on at the top landing and ‘ski’ down. Usually there’s a wreck or mishap of some kind. Always some trick or another. “Did you see that Dad?!?! I turned all the way around on my skis!”

Whilst Christmas shopping this year it was everything I could do to resist the urge to buy the boys--all three of them--this great little ‘personal sized sled’ I saw at a London outdoorsy shop. They were shaped a lot like a plastic shovel head with a handle. Perfect! But somehow it just seemed like cruel and unusual punishment.

So I longed all Christmas break for the snow. Found myself nearly in tears listening to Bridger play skiing with Scott. Wanted to comfort or console Bridger when he said it smelled like snow, and like a true unbeliever I poo-pooed the hope. But then there was Scotty this morning, waking me up in the wee hours just before he left for the airport. Letting me know it was out there--waiting for us. Calling to us. Snow. Not enough to make snow walls like Caid was planning. Not enough for the snowball maker Bridger got for Christmas last year and was missing today. Just barely enough to make hilariously pitiful snow angels. But plenty to do my heart good. Ah...

The Christmas Story

“This something to celebrate God's life. There's a red ribbon to celebrate the blood of God. The orange on this is for the world. The candle is to celebrate Jesus' birthday. The little sultanas are to celebrate the things that we have got to have that God gave us. But I made it at my school. I'm learning 'RE' right now. RE is when we talk about Jesus.”

As told by Bridger Anderberg (6) about his Christingle (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christingle) and documented by his beautiful mother.
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There are lots of versions of the Christmas Story - just like any story - ask my friends who "sasquatch" is and you'll get a many, and varied assortment of stories. Ask them just how long one should boil corn at altitude, and you'll get a whole lot more than cooking instructions...

Luke chapter 2 will forever be "The Christmas Story" to me. Complete with Querinious, governor of Syriah, placed inexplicably into infamy by the Gospel's author. I can pretty much recite it from verse one all the way to "Mary treasured all these things in her heart..." I learned it a little at a time, one year to the next, one sunday school teacher after another, flannel-graph to flannel-graph. So at dinner the other night I asked the boys, "Can you guys tell me the Christmas Story?"

Could they ever...no flannel-graph required -

Bridger: "First, Mary was sweeping the house. Then, um, the angel told her that she was going to have a baby and then Joseph got disappointed that it wasn’t his baby but he fell asleep and had a dream that the angel came to him and told him that the child will not be yours but you can engage with Mary and then it will be yours. Then Joseph was so happy that he ran to Mary and they were engaged."

"Then the king..."

Caid: you mean Hawod..."
Bridger: No not Herod. The king, told them to register and they had to go to Bethlehem (pronounced in proper British with a long e between the l and the h), the town of David in Judea.

I find Joseph's courage this year at the heart of my Christmas Story. I now know what it feels like to uproot a young family and travel thousands of miles from home. We aren't birthing a new child but we are, we have been, birthing a new HOME. A home that is not, and will likely never again, be attached to a physical place in this world. Instead it immenates from the connection that Cori and I have found in all of the heartbreak. All of the pain and the tears. And - not to be missed - the delight, the wonder, the passion, the newness, and the adventure. We can list home in places now like an empty driveway where a car should have been parked awaiting our return from holiday. In a bedroom with nothing but an air mattres for three months. On a freezing cold train carriage where we texted back and forth for two hours as a very important international flight left Gatwick without me. But also home is at the top of the Eiffel Tower. In the wings of Notre Dame betneath the Rose Window. Around the Carousel at the Luxembourg Gardens. At the seaside of the English Channel. In the balcony of a west end theatre. At the Oscar Hotel for Christmas dinner with the boys. In front of this year's tree surrounded by paper chains and childrens' art projects...

And, for whatever inexplicable reason in the human design, like with child birth, most of that birthing has been from Cori. Right from her guts. Something about HOME must come from a woman working to make it so. And so, I have found myself, thinking this year of Joseph. How he must have done all he could to ease the pace and the cadence of that miserable mule on the long road. How he probably gave up the last drink from his water skin every time. And how when he was pointed to the stable he settled in with a smile, tied the donkey, and then slipped to the back where he slid to a squat against the back wall with his head in hands just trying to pull it together. Just trying to keep holding the space. Knowing that's really all he could do.

Bridger: "Then Mary had to have the baby in the stable because they were living in the house that was a stable because there was no where to stay because the rooms where all full."

Me: Where did they try to stay first?

Bridger:They tried to stay in the inn and they asked if they could come in but no, the rooms were all full go try the next inn so the inn keeper said you could stay in my stable.

Me: What's an Inn?

Bridger: An Inn is a hotel in Pub.

Caid: No... Inn is de guy who is de keeper of duh hotel.

I'm suprised this year how many people I've heard reference the Inn Keeper. Some in veiled tones of criticism for not cleaning out so much as a broom closet or giving up his own bed. Some wanting to saint him for offering his stable. Even Garrison Keillor gives the guy a shout out in his version of the story as an overworked, disaffected employee who "just works here." Funny thing is we don't have any idea how he, or she, might have responded. Or whether he or she was there to talk at all. Whatever the case, I like the idea that Joseph stopped and checked on the back room at the local pub, and Mr. Inn, vewy gwaciously offewed them his stable.

Bridger: "So, the shepherds were watching their flocks and an angel came to them and they were terribly frightened. But the angel said not to be afraid. He said I bring you good news, today a baby is born in Judea, town of david...

Caid: "That’s bethlemen..."

Bridger: "...and you will see him lying in a manger in white clothes. Then a whole choir of angels came and they said glory to god in the highest, peace on earth to old men, amen.

The shepherds went to marry and joseph and told them all about what the angels told them. Then everyone was amazed when the shepherds told everybody else.

This was an important point to Bridger. So much so that at the Christ Church Deal Christmas celebration, in the middle of a prayer, Bridger asked for the microphone, and in Christ Church Deal fashion, was given it to tell everyone that one of the important ways the shepherds welcomed Jesus was by telling everybody else about them. But that's just Bridger. Making the kind of connections that Bridger makes everywhere. His full name means "He who builds bridges with Yahweh as his God." And this is what Bridger does. Yesterday he and I went to St. Paul's for a caroling service. St. Paul's is one of the most beautiful cathedrals in the world. The spectacle was amazing. The choir was amazing. Bridger, was unimpressed. Until he learned that the lady sitting next to us was from Boston. i.e., the home of the Red Sox. i.e., the arch nemesis of the Colorado Rockies due to the outcome of the 2007 World Series. i.e., the arch nemesis of Bridger Anderberg and a problem he has been trying to resolve with Nate Shultz since the inception of their relationship. But, Bridger found common ground here. Not in the rivalry, but in the beauty of the sport, and soon the cathedral in all of its splendor could have simply melted away into the dark streets of Bethlehem and, without knowing it, every deed that Bridger has ever witnessed Matt Holiday perform in left field was just one more perfect announcement that the Christ child was born - because he shown out so clearly from the perfect little brown eyes of that little boy and his willingness to make a new friend from Boston.

Bridger: Then there was wise men, riding on camels but they went to Jerusalem, the town where Herod lived and they asked him where Jesus was and he didn’t know and he grew angry but pretended he was happy and said when you find him tell me and I actually will bow down before him too.

Caid: Hewod said that because he gwew angwy and he wanted to kill all duh baby boys.

Me: Why did he want to do that?

Caid: I’m not willy suwe actually?

Bridger: He was afraid that he would lose his power and he wanted to keep his power so he decided to kill all the boys in every country and he sent his men to do that.

This is a part of the Christmas Story I have a tremendous problem with as I consider all of the parents and brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles and grandparents and friends - all of the Anderbergs, and Hoggatts, and Nails, and Switzers, and Baars, and Shultzes, and Elwells, and Philips who would have been shattered by the unbelievable injustice of this event. The loss that would have torn through them as that innocent little piece of their wold was ripped inexplicably from them? I argue with God about this. About how that could have been prevented. About His safe passage to Egypt. About the ridiculous insanity of this bloodshed as a result of what we celebrate every December. I'm still arguing. He's still listening. Perhaps someday we'll change turns and I'll get a fuller picture. But this year I'm just thankful for Jake, and Jack, and Alastair, and I can't wait to see each of them.

Bridger: Then Mary and Joseph were told to move so they moved to a new house and the wise came to see them there. One of the wise men gave them gold, one gave him myrrh, one gave him frankincense. Myrrh is sap from a tree and frankincense is milk from a cow.

Caid: Huh uh. Fwankincence is sap from a twee and Myrrh (said in proper British muhh) is milk from a cow...

We never did discover which was which. But we are clear that those boys have been listenting during RE. RE is, of course, religious education. But this kind of understanding doesn't come from simply listening to the story in school. This comes because they ingest and ask questions and then think for themselves. It's why they can comment on Christmas eve that probably things didn't work out for Joseph and Mary exactly like they expected... Today didn't really end up the way we expected either. We spent the last third of the day in the emergency room because I dislocated my shoulder again. I was goofing around with he boys on the playground and out it popped. I knew immediately, but shoulders don't pop back in per the Mel Gibson/Leathal Weapon routine, so there we were, stuck in a park, in Croydon, on Christmas day with no idea where the closest emergency room was - and no phone. Cori was holding my arm in traction and uttered a quick prayer for help and within 30 seconds a family arrived with two boys, a girl, mum, dad, and the grandparents. Dad called an ambulance. Bridger was swept into the arms of grandmum for a chat to calm him down. Caid was figuring out how to shoot the air pellet guns the two boys had secured from Father Christmas and probably wondering if "it would be wise" to shoot one at me in that state. Granddad stood sentinel on the sidewalk and then barked orders at the EMT's until I was safely in the ambulance.


The ambulance drivers where very kind. Not the most gentle of men with an arm that happens to be as secure as a clock pendulum but very tender just the same - and I needed that today. Due to the horrors that I've heard of the NHS I expected much worse, but even the hospital experience wasn't bad and after only 5 hours from the time of dislocation, I was on my way home with something very strong and affecting doing cartwheels in my veins.

Expedient as it was, we missed Christmas dinner. So we went for plan B. Curry from the local Indian place. The door was open and I walked in to greet the manager and the guy that works the til at the offlicense up the street. Both know me by now and asked about the sling - so I explained. Turns out the restaurant wasn't open today. The manager just got stuck there due to holiday train schedules. He is a Muslim and has never in his life celebrated Christmas. However, when he heard the story, our Christmas Story, he just wanted to help. So he took my order and made us a take home feast of some of the best Indian food I've ever eaten. And made sure that each of us, boys included, had a special drink while we waited for the food to finish.

And so at the end of the day, as Christmas has once again passed on this side of the world, I think about the unexpected turn of events of our day. The unexpected turn of events of our lives. The times in the last few weeks that I have had to slip out back behind the stable, slide to a squat and put my head in my hands and just try to get a grip. And then I think of Roc, the manager of Taste of Bengali at the Sanderstead Train Station and I hope that's what "Inn" was like when he couldn't offer a room to Mary and pointed her to the stable. Simply delighted, even though the event meant nothing to him, to provide a place in the stable.

May the remainder of your Christmas be blessed. May you revel in the family and friends that you have. May you be surprised by all that a friendly universe can offer you if you will open your arms. And may you find the Christ Child in the most unexpected of places throughout 2009. Merry Christmas!


S.A.A.
Dec. 25, 2008

Reading...

Bridger and I turned a corner in our relationship last night. He read a book to me. 'Snow' by P.D. Eastman (which is generationally indicative because he reads that "P dot D dot Eastman"). It has 61 pages. I was so proud of him. Afterwards I told him so. I asked him how he felt about himself, having worked so hard at learning to read. "Yeah, Mom," he said. "I persevered. I know what that word means. I heard you saying that to Holly B at school last week." We talked a little about perseverance and again how proud of him I was. He responded by looking me in the eye and with a very serious look on his face he said, "Yeah, Mom. 'Cause I'm old. And I'm ready for this."
I feel a little old too. I have a son who reads. A new dimension has been entered. I hope I'm as ready as he is.

So here's a weird thing--the English don't seem to rinse things. I noticed it with dishes when we've visited friends here. There's one sink of water with soap. You wash the dishes in the water and then sort of swish them around in the water and set them on the sideboard to drain. No rinsing. No separate sink of non-soapy water. In fact most kitchens I have seen only have one basin in the kitchen--not two sections of the sink like my sink was in the States.
I haven't seen a traditional carwash here yet either. Instead, in the major grocery stores or at the mall there's a 'handwashing service.' They have a little cart with a bucket of soapy water and rags and sponges and that sort of thing. The cars look plenty clean when they're done. I still can't figure out how they rinse it though! There's no hose. There isn't a separate bucket of clean water to rinse with.
So I'm flabbergasted. No rinsing. Go figure...