Terrified!

 I see the news stories--they pop up in my feed because my algorithm knows what buttons to push.  Greencard holder detained for...whatever.  

My husband is in a weird place right now.  He's not a citizen of the USA, but he is here legally.  It should be enough to not worry about airline travel or a routine traffic stop.  But it is becoming less safe every day.

We're flying to Washington, DC in June.  I'm not going to lie.  I'm absolutely worried that he'll be deported.  I'm so worried that I've encouraged him to stop posting on social media.  He needs to watch his content and his tone.

That's heartbreaking.

It's past time for this post...

I had Covid last October. I nearly died. I've been meaning to write down my experience for months now, but it has been too fresh and painful to try to relive it. The time has come to face what happened head on and truly deal with my experience. So here goes nothing:

 October 14, 2020

 There's a wildfire burning out by Mona, so my lungs feel a little tight. Nothing new there--it's been a summer of wildfires, with most of the west coast burning at some point. I've spent the past four months with asthma symptoms, so when my sister Krystle suggests we can pears that night, I agree. I confidently proclaim, "Asthma, not Covid," when I start coughing during the peeling and cutting of the pears. 

 We spend several hours across the table from each other, and bottle some beautiful fruit. I'm tired and wheezing slightly, but that's to be expected. My first clue that something may be wrong wrong is when I stand up to leave. I feel dizzy, and my whole body aches. This does NOT feel like asthma! 

 October 15, 2020

 I wake up feeling like I got hit by a MAC truck. Luckily, it's fall break and the kids are home from school anyway. I call the local hospital and schedule myself a Covid test at their drive in facility. Then I throw on some shoes and drive myself over. 

 The man in full hazmat gear walks out to my car when I get there and call to let them know I've arrived. He sticks that swab so far up my nose, I feel like he's scratching the top of my head with it. And just when I think it can't go any further, he goes that extra 1/4 inch. Yowser! I make some inane comment about at least buying me dinner first, we chuckle a little bit, and I drive off.

 As I drive away, I start sobbing. I'm in so much pain, and I already know in my heart that this is Covid. When I get home, I make a Facebook live video about feeling like hot garbage and being worried it's Covid. I can't bring myself to walk into the house. Literally minutes after finishing the video, I get the call from the infectious disease nurse at the hospital (she's also a family friend, and one of the nicest people I know). She gives me the bad news. I have Covid.

 I sit in the car and digest the news. I think about all the places I've been in the past week.  It's a short list, since we've been hyper vigilant about the virus.

  In the end, I call my mom as a precaution. I have been massaging her hands daily, but I've insisted on doing it outside and both of us wearing masks the entire time.  She thought it was silly, but humored me.  Now she doesn't think it's so silly, as she is sitting in the car with my 87 year old asthmatic grandmother when she gets the news.  

  The hard call is to my sister, Krystle.  Throughout the pandemic, they've been the only people we have socialized with as normal.  We made a conscious choice to do it, for our mental health and theirs, but now I have to call her and tell her I have Covid and her whole family has been exposed.  Her husband has Cystic Fibrosis.  I have to face the reality that I may have just killed my brother in law.

  I call my husband to let him know.  He calls his boss, and is IMMEDIATELY sent home from work.  Essential worker at a grocery store, so he could literally infect thousands of people in a day at work.

  It's only been a few hours since I got my diagnosis.  I've taken care of the necessary business and have started to try to isolate from my family.  I'm feeling worse by the hour, and my temperature is already at 101F and climbing.  I'm trying to manage this like it's "just a flu," but it's not enough to keep me even comfortable. I go to bed alone, as we are trying to avoid me giving the virus to anyone else in the hopes that their quarantine won't need to last as long.

October 16, 2020

  I'm burning up!  Every time my cocktail of Tylenol and Ibuprofen starts to wear off, my fever spikes to around 103F. I can't get comfortable, no matter what I do. I'm trying to stay in my bedroom, but it's unbearably hot.  I take over the front porch, and keep putting cold cloths on my head.  They dry out completely within about ten minutes of application.  My entire body aches.  Every single joint is swollen, even with the anti-inflammatories. Even without the fear of respiratory complications, this is almost unbearable. 

  While I am writhing in agony on the front porch, my superstar husband sets up my "plague room." He moves our small TV in there, and lines up a big row of trashy novels at the foot of the bed.  He gets my nebulizer ready for use.  I have all the drugs on my nightstand. He moves all of his pillows, vitamins, books, and chargers out.

  I spend the entire day either lying down or shuffling slowly to the bathroom.  Trying to stay hydrated.

October 17, 2020

The respiratory symptoms are kicking in.  I've begun using my maximum dose on my nebulizer (thanks, ShaNeil, for getting it for me on your Amazon review group) and applying my TENS unit pads to my neck to help with the muscle pain from coughing.

  I THINK this is the day when the nausea started to get bad and I lost my sense of taste and smell.  Drinking fluids is getting difficult, and eating is pretty impossible. I'm trying to force fluids, and friends and family are dropping off drinks to try and help.  Every kind gesture nearly brings me to tears.

  This is also the day (I think) when I find out that my much loved brother in law has tested negative for Covid.  Even though I am so sick, I'm so relieved.  There's a good chance that I haven't killed him after all.

  I post a picture of myself using my nebulizer with face mask (my preference, because then I can have both hands free during my breathing treatment) on Facebook, and one of my "friends" accuses me of faking it for attention / a political agenda.  Really??

October 18, 2020

It's a bad night.  I can't sleep well, and start hallucinating.  I literally can't tell the difference between my dreams and reality, and at one point I find myself lying on the hardwood floor of my bedroom because I think that it's a good idea.  I think I'm just severely dehydrated because of the nausea and sweating.  I wake Martin up, and tell him "I think it's time to go to the hospital." It's about 5.30am.

  We get to the emergency room, and I'm seen pretty quickly.  They test my O2 sats.  Low 80's. The hallucination wasn't from dehydration, I guess.  Though I AM also dehydrated.  I'm admitted to the hospital.

THIS IS WHEN THINGS START TO GET REALLY FUZZY!

  This day is a little bit weird in my brain.  I think I went into the emergency room on my own and Martin went home.  I KNOW he couldn't come to my hospital room.  I think they did a chest X-ray, but I don't know the result.  I know I could eat, because they were giving me anti nausea medication in my IV, and what I mostly had was Jell-o and soup.  I did another Facebook live video. I tried to do the breathing exercises they had given me, and it hurt SO BAD! I talked on the phone with a lot of people, because it usually helps my lungs clear out when I'm having a bad asthma attack.  That seems about right.

October 19, 2020

This day is very similar to the day before--at least to start with.  I lay in bed doing nothing for most of it.  More attempts at breathing exercises. More talking on the phone.  The supplemental oxygen keeps needing to be turned up.  My GP comes to see me, and we discuss Remdesivir.  He tells me it costs about $5,000 per treatment, and I will need a minimum of three treatments.  The hyperventilating helps my O2 sats a bit, and I agree to try this experimental drug.

I get the bad news that the hospital doesn't have enough Remdesivir for my treatment, but they are expecting a drug shipment later that day.  Treatment can't start yet, so I just have to wait.  I spend as much time as possible in a prone position, but it's starting to not be enough.  Even with nearly full flow supplemental oxygen, my O2 stays in the low 90's.

Night shift starts, and I am being checked on every four hours or so.  The nurses are NOT prompt with my asthma inhalers, and in the middle of the night, I am almost completely unable to breathe.  I frantically press the call button, but there is no response.  I feel the beginnings of a panic attack, which I know will only make the breathing worse.  I force myself to calm down and focus intently on my breathing.  I breathe in joy and breathe out toxicity.  My mind fastens on one joyful thought, and it sees me through the next hour or so.  I picture the face of my beautiful nephew, Horatio.  He's usually such an Eeyore, all doom and gloom.  But occasionally, when something goes well, his whole face lights up like a beacon and he radiates pure happiness.  Horatio, you saved my life tonight!

October 20, 2020

  This day blends into the last one, with the shift change and a nurse finally coming to check on me and give me an inhaler to use.  I'm so angry that I nearly died in a hospital without anyone knowing it!  But my oxygen is so low that my brain isn't functioning well enough to express that anger.  And I don't have the energy for it, anyway.

  My room becomes a hive of activity now, as the Remdesivir didn't arrive in the drug shipment and I am on the verge of needing to go on a ventilator.  At least, looking back now, that's what I'm inferring.  In the moment, it's a blur of people running in and out of my room, speaking in hushed tones, while I ramble distractedly about how the ceiling looks like it's covered in undulating blobs of peach and fluorescent green. 

Someone tells me that I'm being sent to another hospital.  One with an ICU.  I text Martin and ask him to get some things together for me and see if my mom can bring them over.  He cant' bring them since he's quarantined.

  The EMT in the ambulance is Marty from high school.  It's so nice to see a friendly face.  He opens the windows of the ambulance as we speed to the nearest hospital with an ICU bed available, 50 miles away.  I watch the sunrise, and drift in and out of consciousness even though I am on bipap oxygen.  I think to myself, "At least I got to see one more sunrise."  I think I'm dying.  I probably am.

  We are greeted at Timpanogos regional hospital by what seems like at lease a dozen people.  I am rushed up to the cardiac care unit, which they have converted into a Covid ward since the regular ICU's have been overrun with Covid patients.  Immediately, I am fitted with a high flow nasal canula which forces warm air into my lungs (the hospital in Nephi had me at 10.  They started this one at 40).  They are so blocked at this point that I know this must be what water boarding feels like, but I know that if this doesn't work, I will be ventilated.  And I know that most patients on a ventilator end up dying.

  Another team comes in to insert a PIC line.  That's not an experience I'd care to repeat.  But the medicine they're about to start giving me makes it necessary and it IS more comfortable than a standard IV. Once it's in.

  Oh, and they inserted a catheter. At least I won't have to get up to pee.

  By mid afternoon, my condition is more stable.  I am able to communicate briefly with friends and family. They've started me on Remdesivir and Dexamethasone.  Later, I will find out that Dexamethasone is an end of life steroid given to dying patients to relieve cranial pressure.  It's probably why I needed the pic line. It's about six times stronger than the steroids I normally take for my asthma.  I'm not getting better, but I'm no longer getting worse.  

  That's something!

October 21, 2020

  I spend most of this day lying in my hospital bed, completely focused on breathing.  I mean that, too.  It literally takes every ounce of energy I have just to force my lungs to work.  Decades of practice with different breathing techniques for my asthma are literally keeping me alive right now. It feels like familiar territory.  It's worse than any breathing problems I've ever experienced, but I'm used to breathing through the pain.  So I think about how I don't want to miss out on all of the milestones still to come in my kids' lives.  I think about how much I love my husband.  I think about all of the simple joys in my life.  And I make myself take every single breath. I fight for my life.

  My doctor approves me for convalescent plasma.  I'm the first patient in this hospital to receive it, and my nurse tells me how lucky I am to be getting it.  It's not available to everyone, and the most perfect set of stars have just aligned. I bless the fact that the lab where they make the plasma has a great working relationship with my doctor, and the fact that I am usually so very healthy even though I'm packing extra pounds. No diabetes, no high blood pressure, perfectly functioning thyroid...just terrible lungs.

I receive the convalescent plasma late that afternoon, right after my second Remdesivir treatment.  It looks like egg yolk, and I am acutely aware that I'm having people parts injected into my blood stream.  I have a brief "Soylent Green" moment, before I say a quick prayer of thanks for the people who generously donated their plasma to the cause.

While I'm receiving the treatment, a news alert pops up on my phone.  Remdesivir has been officially approved by the FDA for the treatment of Covid-19.  Experimental treatment no more!

  I start to feel...better.  Maybe.

October 22, 2020

A lost day for me.  Honestly, I don't remember much of anything.  I know it was another day of fighting for breath.  I also know that this is the day they started bringing me protein shakes with my meals because I wasn't eating enough.  The night was significant though.

  I'm lying in bed, trying to sleep, when the night nurse comes in.  He's chatting to me as he checks everything, and he asks how I'm feeling.  I take honest stock of my current situation, and I tell him I'm feeling a bit better.  And I start to sob again.  I grasp his arm and gasp, "I'm going to get better, aren't I!" And it's not a question.  I know I'm going to get better.  I know I'm going to live.  I feel hope for the first time in nearly a week.

October 23, 2020

I'm getting better.  I sit in the chair in my room to eat my lunch.  I have my catheter removed. I play a few games on my phone instead of just staring at the ceiling trying to breathe. I get taken off the high flow nasal canula and put back on regular oxygen. My sense of smell is starting to come back.  I'm very aware that I haven't showered in nearly a week.

  We start to talk about me going home.  Possibly tomorrow!

October 24, 2020

My doctor makes a flying visit (most of my care has been provided by nurses, who are absolute heros in my book). She assesses my O2 saturation without supplemental oxygen and promptly writes a scrip for home oxygen along with blood thinners and steroids.  

  I contact my sweet Martin and tell him to come and get me.  The nurse helps me gather up all of my stuff.  I have the final bag of IV Remdesivir.  Martin phones when he gets there, and I am wheeled down to the hospital entrance.  Then Martin helps me into the car, and we set off.

  The view when we crest the hill south of Santaquin and start to drop into Juab county is perhaps the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.  

  I feel like a stranger in my own home.  The bathroom is so far away!  I take THE BEST SHOWER OF MY LIFE. I'm exhausted, and little do I know the hard work that's still ahead of me.

Here's the thing...

If a year from now it turns out I was wrong to believe the science and the advice of experts, what have I lost? So I spent a few months living like a hermit and planting a garden, and I looked like a fool with a jock strap on my chin when I did the grocery shopping. If you were wrong, you may have passed on a virus that killed somebody. All things being equal, I know which one I'd rather be.

Just a typical day during soccer season...

Yesterday was pretty crazy. Dylan went to visit his girlfriend (yes, girlfriend) over in Ephraim. Elizabeth's older sister came and got Dylan in the morning, and we picked him up in the afternoon. I got up early to give Dylan a haircut (he wanted to look cute for his girlfriend), since I am my family's official Covid-19 hairdresser. I've cut everyone's hair but my own. So Edith and I had a very lazy day, but things got crazy around 2.30pm. I picked up some paperwork from Krystle's office since we don't have a printer, then dropped it off at the hospital for our doctor to sign. Then it was back home to pick up Edith and Martin. We drove to Ephraim to get Dylan, rushed back to Nephi to pick up one of Martin's soccer players, and drove to Spanish Fork for a Shooters game. Since we had a non-family member in the car, we drove there and back with masks on. It kind of sucked, but that's the only way I'll let a stranger ride in our car. The game was fun. The girls played well, and we beat the other team 3-1. Edith is such a joy to watch. She gets really stuck in, and can reach so far with those long, long legs of hers. I'm not thrilled that Martin is coaching two teams, but it'll be good once the kids are in high school. They'll be better players for it. Anyway, after the game, it was a quick drive home to drop Lilly off and get Martin kitted out to play in his game. He went to play, and I took the kids to grab some dinner. Edith ate her dinner at his game, but Dylan and I ate at home. Soccer season is so consuming. We have Cook Camp this weekend, but Martin and the kids are going to miss almost all of it because of the autumn friendlies. I'm pretty angry about that, but feel like my hands are tied. Between Martin's two teams and Dylan's team, we have six games to go to on Saturday. I"m not planning on going right now, but we'll see. The thought of 30+ people congregating for a full weekend kind of fills me with anxiety already, so I may use the games as an excuse for some alone time in the car. We'll see. It's only going to get busier, but we had so many months of doing nothing that I almost don't mind. Sheltering in place was hard!

My hands are shaking as I type this...

I just got back from dinner at my sister's house. My awesome brother in law made too much curry (as if there IS such a thing) and he invited us up. The meal was amazing, but the news was not. A couple she works with have an active COVID-19 in the house. They've carried on as usual, going to work every day, cheerfully not wearing masks. I am furious. If Blaine gets Covid, he will probably die. It sounds so terrible, to spit it out so baldly like that. But truth hurts. So does knowing that your irresponsibility killed someone. I hope he doesn't get sick, because it would be terrible to know that someone died because you couldn't be bothered to stay home for a few weeks.

A change is as good as a rest

So they say, and they are right. Today we went to Sugar House to visit with some friends, Mike and Dani. We had a very responsible, small, outdoor gathering. Mike grilled burgers and made mojitos (virgin for us). It was a lovely get together. We were able to forget that things are crazy for a little while. As we were leaving, I got to vent a little bit to Dani about my frustrations regarding mask wearing. I got a little overwhelmed, and I started to cry. She hugged me, and though I know it wasn't the smartest thing to do, it was so necessary. Life right now seems to be a balancing act. I'm carefully walking a fine line between physical and mental health. I'm teetering between keeping the kids active and happy and mitigating risk. Everything is more complicated, and it's starting to take its toll. Even on the days when I seem ok, this miasma of darkness is simmering just below the surface. Sometimes things actually are ok. Yesterday I made a batch of chokecherry jam from the trees on our property. It was hot and sweaty work, but I was so pleased with the results. When we go swimming in Burraston ponds, I have hours at a time when all is well. Card games or Guitar Hero with the family make me so happy. Any time we spend with friends or family (or family who are best friends)brings me real joy. And the vegetable garden...oh, the vegetable garden! But they don't sink deep enough to break up the gloom. Eventually, reality comes crashing back. The distractions are too few and far between. I think I need to schedule things to get a ripple effect going. And i definitely need more hugs.

To mask or not to mask, that is the question.

Except it's not really a question.

When stuff first started to look really bad for the U.S. in regards to Covid-19, the CDC and NIAID told regular Joes to not wear masks, because there was a serious shortage of PPI for people working in hospitals and treating Covid patients. You know, because most of the stuff came from China and they were basically on a lock down and nothing was getting shipped overseas. But as the supply line was fixed and as we learned more about the virus, we've been told to mask up.

The science and the anecdotal evidence backs it up. Covid spreads via respiratory droplets being expelled by an infected person and inhaled by a healthy person. Wearing a simple cloth mask contains most of the droplets, thus reducing the spread of infection. So everybody should wear one, right?

Apparently not.

Martin has been wearing a mask to work every day since the CDC officially recommended it. He hates it, but he does it. In fact, he's been doing it for so long now that he doesn't even hate it any more. It's just a minor inconvenience, and it keeps me from harassing and begging him to grow a beard. That must be nice for him.

I basically didn't set foot off my property for the better part of three months, nor did my kids. But since we started venturing out, we always mask up if we're going indoors. We're more chill in outdoor settings, because recirculated air is a bigger problem than outside, especially if you can't "socially distance."

I'm part of the 1-2% of people who will potentially have major problems (up to and including death) if I get Covid. But the thing is, wearing the mask does little to no good for me. If I want to be protected, the people around me have to wear the mask. And they freaking won't!

The government has said we should (though President Trump refused to wear one up until last weekend). The WHO, CDC, NIAID, and various other scientific research groups have said we should. In Utah, even the Area Presidency have asked us to wear a mask. And yet people are refusing. They're saying that mandating masks is infringing on their freedom. They're listening to, watching, and quoting alt-right conspiracy theorists about the so called "dangers" of wearing masks. They are saying it's too uncomfortable, they hate it, they're even throwing out the old pro-choice slogan, "My body, my choice."

I could die from this disease. I'm 41 years old. My kids are not quite 13 and 11. I'm generally healthy, but have had asthma since birth. And apparently, my "friends" neighbors think it's ok for me to die because they suffer from some claustrophobia if they cover their mouths and noses with a little strip of fabric?

People are saying that those of us who wear masks are "living in fear," to which I say OF COURSE I'M LIVING IN FEAR! I am not a germaphobe, nor am I afraid of life. What I am afraid of is dying at the age of 41. Of not being around to see my son go on his first real date. Of not being there to help my daughter when she gets her first period. Of missing out on fully half my life because someone didn't want to be "controlled" by a government agency, so they breathed their asymptomatic germs into my face and sentenced my family to a life without me. Show me one single person who isn't afraid to die this young. I dare you!

Obviously, this is a sensitive subject for me. I get really emotional about it. And I recognize the fear of those who think they are being controlled. I recognize it, because I've felt that deep dread low in the pit of my stomach ever since the schools were shut and the governor urged everyone to "shelter in place." I don't want anyone else to feel that way, ever. I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy. But now they are insisting that if you are immunocompromised or high risk, you should just stay home. To which I say, I've stayed home for the better part of six months, because we didn't understand the virus. Now we sort of do, and if everyone wears a mask while out in public, I can safely leave my house for the first time since January. I've done my time. So if you can't wear a mask, how about YOU be the one to just stay at home. It's your turn now.

The one that I'm struggling with the most right now is the Church request. They sent out a letter almost two weeks ago now, asking that all members in the Utah area wear masks indoors and outside in public when social distancing isn't possible. When they sent the letter out, I literally cried tears of joy. It was the answer to a prayer. Finally, our religious leaders were going to encourage the members to be kind and decent and do the "Christian" thing to help each other. But the members have lashed out, been disgusted, rolled their eyes, said the church was turning into a "communist" church so they'd have to leave now, and said they won't be controlled. This from people who don't drink, smoke, do drugs, have premarital sex, AND give up 10% of their income. The Church LITERALLY controls everything they do. But this one step, covering your face when you go out in public until virus rates fall dramatically for the sake of the elderly and immunocompromised, THIS is the one that gets you?

I've had times when my beliefs have wavered. I've had times when I stepped away from my faith. But I've always come home to my religion because it is just that--coming home. And I believe the things the Church teaches. I will never leave because of the doctrines, the rules, the slightly strange things we do, the amateur and unpaid clergy and teachers. I will never leave over tithing, or the Word of Wisdom. I never left over three hour church. But right now, the lack of love and kindness and consideration of the members is making me rethink everything.

I'm holding on out of sheer stubbornness right now, but my grip is starting to slip.

Sometimes, the sadness is a relief. At least my tears wash away some of the anger and bitterness.

So the whole world has turned into a gigantic dumpster fire...

...but I feel fine?!

J/K. Not fine at all.

So for posterity's sake, we are currently in the middle of a global pandemic-Covid-19. It first showed in in the Wuhan province in China, but quickly spread throughout the whole world. The U.S. was slow to respond, due in large part to our president, good old Donald J Trump, and things have been completely mental since, oh, maybe late February. Check the date. It's mid July as I write this.

The kids have been out of school since the 13th of March, with distance learning happening until late May. The unemployment rate in this country has more than tripled. There's been a government stimulus payment of $1200 per adult for every American. Huge metropolitan areas have been shut down for months. The current death toll in the U.S. is 141,000. We currently make up 4% of the world's population, but have around 25% of the world's cases.

Covid-19 is a respiratory illness, so my asthma puts me in a high risk category for serious complications or death, so I've basically been a hermit since the end of January. I think I might have already had it back in January, when I got really sick and my doctor told me to self quarantine. Back then, we weren't really sure how the virus worked and didn't have any good tests for it, but antibodies don't always form so a test would be unreliable at this point.

So there have been protests by people who think the virus is a hoax planned to ruin Trump's chances of reelection. There have been protests about widespread closure of businesses. There have been protests about wearing masks. People have just been fighting like crazy.

Add to that mix the death of George Floyd, a black man essentially murdered by cops who were trying to arrest him for allegedly writing a bad check (they kneeled on his neck for nearly nine minutes, yo! It was really hard to watch), and the Black Lives Matter movement basically exploded with righteous anger. So rioting happened, unidentified military people have been removing protesters from the streets of Portland, Oregon and Seattle, Washington (I think). People have been fighting about the BLM stuff. People have been blaming a non-existent terror organization (Antifa) for the rioting. People have been fighting about defunding the police.

Sensing a theme here? People are fighting. All. The. Time.

So welcome back, blog. I need to express my thoughts right now, but in a format where I won't fight with people. My emotions are barely under control, I'm a hot mess, super anxious, depressed, you name it. So I need to write it all down and purge my system so I can stay friends with people and maintain my sanity.

Now that the catch up is complete (sort of), I can start writing about my feelings. Another night. But soon, because my usual space for self expression has been hijacked by angry trolls.

It feels good to be writing again!

Because you can have an opinion and not be a jerk about it!

Someone I know and like posted this on Facebook last week:

DEAR SINGERS AND ACTORS:

We spend our hard earned money to hear
your music. And to watch you pretend to
be characters in movies and on TV.

Your only job is to entertain us. To take
us away from reality.

Your personal opinion means nothing to us.

You are significant and influential only in
your own mind. And within the minds of
your elitist peers.

You are a marionette to us. Nothing more.

SING. ACT.
SHUT UP.

Wow. Just, wow!

I mean, what an incredibly harsh thing to direct at another person. You wouldn't say that to anybody's face, would you? Or to any other person you ran into in your every day life?

If the checkout girl at the grocery store said something to you about enjoying the weather when you thought it was too hot, you wouldn't snarl at them and say "Just scan my groceries and take my money. You and your opinions don't matter to anyone. You're just a minimum wage earning machine."

I hate that the remove of a screen seems to make it ok to treat people horribly.

I also find that comment hypocritical. So a wealthy and famous person isn't "supposed to" use the platform that they have gained by a combination of talent, luck, and hard work to share their opinions, but you are allowed to use the platform you have gained by signing up for a Facebook account and acquiring some "friends" to share yours? See the irony there? It's practically screaming at me!

What I wanted to do was tell this person (in a kind and gentle way) that she was being mean and horrible. That her meme was really at odds with some other ones she posted right after that. Like this one:

"I testify that no one of us is less treasured or cherished of God than another"
--Jeffrey R. Holland

You can't have it both ways, mate. You can't speak horribly about people in one breath, and then go full-force Christian in the next. If God cherishes all people alike, you were just a major jerk to a beloved child of God. I don't think He will be really happy about that.

I see so many "good Christians" acting like this. I see members of my own church claiming to love God and then openly mocking His children. Why? Because they don't believe the same things? Because they have different opinions on social policy? Because they said something you don't agree with? That's utter madness! Opinions are like a$*holes. Everyone's got one, and most of them stink!

I've tried to be more kind to people with differing opinions to mine in the last two weeks. Writing my last post made me think, and I know that I am guilty of making fun of people who don't think like I do. And so, when I read that first post and I looked at the memes surrounding it (a LOT of negativity, anger and hate from this person, guys!) I decided to think more deeply about this lovely person and wonder why that emotion was there. Instead of angrily posting a reply, I realised that she must be unhappy right now. And so I directed some positive energy her way and tried not to dwell on the hypocrisy and vitriol.

Always be kind.

Love one another.

Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.

Don't feed the trolls.

Wise words to live by!

Because if I bite my tongue one more time, it might fall off...

There was a political/moral issue making the social media rounds a few weeks back, and I felt passionate about it. I kept quiet on the matter until someone I know to be fair minded asked on Facebook for different opinions. So I shared mine. I did it in an intelligent and intense way, and felt really good about the comment. Then I had a mini-panic attack while I sat back and waited for the hate to roll in.

That's a problem.

I am an opinionated person. If something important is going on, I like to educate myself using multiple sources or, whenever possible, the direct source. Then I think about the matter and form my own opinion. I draw on my own life experiences, try to see things from others' perspectives, and be thoughtful and empathetic. You know, like a grown up. But lately, I have kept quiet about those opinions. Well, with everybody except Martin. Poor guy, he has to hear ALL of my opinions.

So why am I no longer talking about the way I feel? I never used to stress out about how my opinions would be received. I relished a good debate! Now I practically have a melt down when I express an unpopular opinion on social media. What's changed?

I'd like to think that it's the rest of the world. To a certain extent, it is. People these days think that their political parties define them, and we have generally become intolerant of differing opinions. And the remove of a computer or phone screen makes us more likely to attack others viciously. Something I've really been thinking in the last few days is that we are more than our political affiliation. So much more! To reduce the people in our lives to nothing more than an "R" or a "D," or any other label, is really doing them a disservice.

I'd like to think it's that.

But really, truth be told, I have become a coward.

I tried so hard to be non-objectionable while we were living with my parents. Obviously I failed, since my dad told me I was argumentative and impossible to live with, but I did my best. And since then, I have continued to bite my tongue in most public places and on most public forums. In some cases, it has been an attempt to keep the peace. But most of the time, it has been out of fear of causing "drama" or making people angry.

Guess what? I am a politically unaffiliated though unashamedly liberal woman. I have been ever since I first started taking an interest in world affairs and started forming my own opinions. I live in a very conservative area, and have a very conservative extended family. I disagree with so many of the things they are passionate about. And I need an outlet. Because if I bite my tongue one more time, it might fall off!

So the nature of my blog is changing. If I can't be more courageous in my online persona and face to face interactions, then I can at least be brave in my writing. Expressing my opinion on Facebook felt good, even with the panic attack. I need to talk about the things that matter to me. So be prepared!

It's been a while...

I've been meaning to write for absolutely ages. I mean that, too. As each milestone has been passed, I think to myself, "self, you need to write about this." And then I don`t, the milestone passes, and I feel like it`s too late.

So here`s the run-down:

We moved in to our own house on September 5th last year. It was hard, but we managed. The actual move was not too hard, as we didn't have much stuff and it was only in one place in mom and dad`s house. Living in a building site was hard. Our bedroom was floorless when we moved in, so we were sleeping in the living room. But we're comfortable now. In fact, we only have 1.5 rooms that need work. All of the rooms need little things doing to them, but its pretty much cosmetic. Martin built an amazing porch this year, and next year we are going to do our dining room and bedroom extensions. Or maybe just the dining room. Not sure yet. The current project is the "raccoon room."

Christmas was an adventure. Money was really tight, and Martin's dad came for a visit as well. The kids had a good Christmas, but Martin and I had to wait until after December to buy presents for each other. Laurence was good company, and we were thrilled to see him.

We got our own mortgage in January. It was amazing to be able to pay off the loan from my parents. We are independent again, and it feels amazing! We couldn't have bought the house without them, but I hated being beholden to them. It felt like they were constantly checking up on us and making sure their investment was going well. So January mortgage was amazing!

The kids are fully settled in to school here. They are also enjoying community sports and church. Edith does dancing, and she is on the competition team this year. Dylan is doing twice weekly crossfit classes to keep himself/get game fit for soccer. He's getting really good, and he wants to play at the high school when he's old enough. They continue to be a constant source of irritation and joy!

We hit our one year anniversary in March, and it was crazy! Then it was back for a visit to England in May, which was even crazier! It feels like we've been here forever. The visit was rushed, but incredible.

September saw the one year anniversary of us moving in to our own place. That also seems crazy. And the year saw a lot of changes, like a real bedroom for me and Martin, the remodel on the front room to get rid of the 60's wall panelling and avocado green carpet. We've reclaimed more of the garden, as well.

The best part of life right now is how it's settled back into a pattern of normalcy. Things were absolute chaos for a while, and it was a real struggle. Obviously, nothing's perfect. My relationship with my dad still isn't great, and I don't like to go to their house unless I have been explicitly invited. And we miss our friends and family in England a lot. But we fit in here now, and that's a real comfort.

I have to do this more often.

A family emergency of sorts...

Last Thursday, my Grandpa Cook took a tumble. It doesn't seem like such a big deal until you realize that he is nearly 90. And the way he fell was bad. He cut his arm open, and bashed his head against the kitchen counter. My dad and Jace got him up and bandaged his arm. Then he started complaining about pain in his neck. One trip to the emergency room later and the doctor discovered he had broken the top vertebrae of his spine. They thought he would be able to have surgery to fix the break, but it turns out that surgery won't work. His bones are too brittle. So he is in the hospital in Nephi, and going to have to learn to maneuver around with a neck brace. He's in a lot of pain, but he is doing ok. My parents are exhausted, as they have been running back and forth between Nephi and Salt Lake City since Thursday. Jace has been a trooper as well, spending nights with Grandpa in the hospital.

It's been a hard weekend for everyone, but there is a silver lining. I was able to spend some time with grandpa in the emergency room, while he waited to be transported to a hospital in SLC. And I will be able to visit him some more while he is in the hospital here in town.

As I sat next to grandpa and held his hand, I felt so grateful. For years, I have missed every major family event. The weddings were difficult to miss, but the funeral was the worst. Being so far away when my Nana was dying has always filled me with the deepest regret. Krystle skyped me for the funeral, but it wasn't the same. So being able to hold my grandpa's hand was like a gift. And I remembered why I wanted to move back here in the first place.

I also got to spend some quality time with my dad. I don't know how or why, but things seem better between us now. And that feels like a gift as well.

In other news, my super diligent mom found us some free mattresses on KSL classifieds. We are so close to being able to move in. Martin is leveling the floor in the kids' room as I type, and our bed is set up in the front room. Bathroom tile is arriving on Friday, and once the tile is laid, we will have a working bathroom. A working kitchen and bathroom, plus beds for us all. Those were my only stipulations for moving in. We are nearly there.

I'm pretty excited to be in our own home again. But I'm also nervous about moving into a building site. We'll see how it goes I guess. I mean, we have been practically living here for a while now. We do most of our cooking here, and spend most of our waking hours here as well. But it's another change. I don't really do change very well. And my parents' house is super nice. Ours, less so. Not right now, anyway. But we will get there, and it will be great to be the queen bee of my home again!

A long overdue update...

So much has happened in the past three months. We made it through a difficult transition period from England to the U.S. There was paperwork, paperwork, and more paperwork. There was getting the kids settled in to the new school. There were bureaucratic hoops to jump through. There was the dismay at discovering that our U.S. credit had reset to zero due to inactivity, and our British credit was useless. There was the discovery of a lonely little house that needed someone crazy enough to come along and love it enough to buy it and fix it instead of tearing it down. There was the loan from my parents to make that purchase possible, and the frustrations that entailed. There is the ongoing process of renovation, and the fact that my children and I are sleeping on the floor of our unfinished home tonight because of my inability to get along with my father.

This is not going to be a rant about my Cook dad. It never was. It is going to be me, finally being honest about my very complicated feelings.

My dad doesn't like me. Don't get me wrong here...he loves me like his own flesh and blood. But he hasn't LIKED me for a long time now. I know it's true, and I've felt it deeply since I was about 15. I don't know why he doesn't. Maybe it's because I am too much of a "bleeding heart liberal" for his conservative Republican ways. Maybe it's because I place very little value in the things he chooses to do for fun. Maybe it's because I am too outspoken in my opinions. Maybe it's because I am fundamentally unlovable. It could be anything. I am at a total loss here.

I wasn't an easy teenager to deal with. Something I will freely admit. If I hadn't grown up in an extremely religious household, I probably wouldn't have been such a "problem child". But religion was a big part or our lives (I wouldn't have it any other way) so even though I was a straight A student who was involved in theater, speech and debate, choir, drill team, and newspaper staff, my constant questioning of authority and my boyfriend made me...not good enough? My relationship with my dad, strained before, took a nose dive at age 17. I moved out of my parents' house five days after I graduated from high school, and aside from a brief two month period between years at college, have not been back.

One of the difficulties of moving back to the good ol' U.S. of A. has been leaving family and friends who knew and loved me and coming back to virtual strangers who felt obligated to love me, but don't know me. My dad is at the top of that list.

Since coming here (and staying in his home rent-free, because he is a very good man with a strong sense of familial obligation) we have fallen into our old, tired roles of disapproving father and rebellious teen. Ridiculous, as I am attending my 20th high school reunion later this month. I have felt myself slipping back into daughter mode instead of staying in mother mode. I hate it, and I am trying so hard not to do it. But I fail. Often.

I beat myself up over it constantly. I've tried so hard to be as unobtrusive as possible in his home, since he made it very clear that we were welcome to stay, but he didn't want it to look like we lived there. I've shouted at my kids and my husband because I didn't want my father to be inconvenienced and annoyed. I've offered to help. I've done what I can to be a help instead of a burden. But it's never good enough. I've been a bad wife and mother, in the hope of being a better daughter.

Full disclosure-I have lost my temper as well. Over something that I felt I was right about, and on behalf of my own children, but I still shouldn't have snapped the way I did.

Conversations have been difficult with him, because so many of the things I care about passionately are things he disagrees with me about. So we don't talk about things that matter, because I don't want to rock the boat. I thought I was doing ok at it, but apparently I'm not.

Tonight he went to Lamb Days in Fountain Green. He took a couple of my brothers-in-law and they got mutton dinners. The kids and I came back to their house after being out all day, and Dylan asked how the mutton was. My dad said it was ok. Then he said something about Fountain Green having the best lamb in the world. And I said, "Oh, I don't know..." and then the gloves came off. He yelled at me. A lot. He accused me of always contradicting him, no matter what he said. He said something about the 150 year lambing traditions of Fountain Green. He asked me why I am so argumentative. And I backed down, told him I guessed he was right. That all I had been going to say was that North Lincolnshire might give Fountain Green a run for their money. I apologized. And then I didn't want to be there any more. I didn't want to get bawled out over the stupid Lamb Days celebration. I didn't want to spend one more second under the roof of a man who feels that way about me.

I wish I was angry about this ridiculous fight. Anger would be more in my nature. Instead, I am so upset. I've tried so hard to be the kind of person he could be proud of. And in so many ways, I feel I have succeeded. But my success was 6,000 miles away. He never saw that success. He doesn't known that me. All he sees is that punk ass kid who punched him and screamed at him in a ShopKo parking lot over 20 years ago.

At least, I hope that's what it is. Because if it's not, if he sees the adult me and still treats me with such disdain, then maybe it really is me. Maybe I really haven't done anything in my whole life to make him proud. So that even if he doesn't like me, he can at least have a little bit of begrudging respect for me. Maybe I haven't actually earned that at all?

I guess I wouldn't care so much what he thought of me if I didn't love the man, but I do. He's a good man, and there is so much that I admire about him. I WANT him to like me. I want him to be proud of me. I don't want him to speak to me like I'm a horrible person-especially not right in front of my children.

I was virtually abandoned by my Bowcutt dad as a baby, and that relationship has only existed through my own efforts. Right now, I feel like I am driving another father away. It sounds so disgustingly melodramatic, even to me, but I'm starting to wonder why my dads don't want me around. Because if it's just the one, it might be him. But when it's two, well, you have to look for the common denominator.

So there you have it. That is why I am sitting in an unfinished house at midnight, my children asleep on the living room floor, crying my eyes out while my husband sleeps at my parents' house. Because my dad actually likes him. And because his back isn't up to sleeping on the floor, and my poor husband shouldn't have to suffer because I can't get along with my father.

I really need to buy a mattress.

These eagles have landed!

We did it! After an extremely busy month of frantic preparations and a final three days of pure madness, then two days of hard traveling, we have arrived back in the good old' U.S. of A. It's very different this time around.

When we moved to England, we said tearful goodbyes to my family. There were not many super close friends that we cried over, though we had a select few that we were sad to leave behind, and we stayed in touch with them. It felt like I was leaving home, but not like I was leaving my whole life.

This time, that's exactly what it feels like. It isn't't just family we left behind. It is that close knit fabric of a life delicately woven of school friends, church friends, work friends, extended family, and those close few who are kindred spirits. This time is heartbreaking.

I never thought I would feel this way about leaving England. So much of my time right after the kids were born was spent hating it there, and I have longed for my family every time we missed a major event. But the bottom line is that I learned to love it.

Just salute and call me Arnold...

Super obscure Red Dwarf reference there. I promise, if you get the reference it is hysterically funny. Though I did cry the first time Martin said it to me...

But basically, I now have an "H" shaped scar on my forehead.

I saw a dermatologist for a mole next to my nose right before Christmas. That one was fine, though the doctor referred me to have it removed. Then, on my way out the door, he asked me if I had any questions. So I asked him to take a quick look at what I thought was an age spot (because my papa D has loads of them). He looked at it, then grabbed a magnifying device for a closer look. Then put some lubrication on my skin for an even closer look. Then he measured it. And said, "Hmmmmm..." Then he referred me to the maxillo-facial surgery department at Scunthorpe hospital. Six weeks later (which, incidentally, is lightening quick for the NHS!) I was having the "lesion" removed for biopsy. They removed the entire lesion as well as a small margin all the way around it, which was approximately the size of my fingernail. And because the area was so large they had to do some creative cutting on my face to cover it. A graft wasn't necessary, but they had to release my skin from my fascia and create "advancement flaps" to stretch over the wound.


This is immediately after the procedure.

Obviously I was numb for the procedure. There were a lot of dissolvable stitches underneath the skin, and twelve of them to close the outside flaps. The nerves were cut, and could take up to 18 months to regenerate, so the stitched area doesn't hurt too much. But holy Hannah, my eye puffed out like a proud father's chest, and I had some deep bruising that came out yellow about 3 days after the procedure. Seriously, my eye was nearly swollen shut!





I basically hid in the house for a week because I felt like a hideous beast, leaving only when I HAD to. But then the stitches came out, and it looked a bit better. But my right eye and cheek were still swollen. It felt like a really bad allergic reaction, but without the itching.




After the stitches were removed, I accidentally rubbed the wound lightly with a washcloth. It opened up on the bottom again. Only a little bit, but it bled for about half an hour. I just read a book while I applied pressure until it stopped. That is still some delicate skin! But it occurred to me what a miracle the human body is. A week ago, my skin was in a different place. A doctor loosened it and moved it, then stitched it somewhere else. And my body changed. Just like that! In another week, I will be able to start massaging the area so the scar tissue doesn't become too bulky, and a year from now you probably won't even be able to tell I had it done. The surgeon moved stuff around, but my body is going to accept that movement and heal itself in the new place. Amazing!

And now, three weeks later, it looks, well, almost normal? The healing process is coming along nicely, and I don't cringe when I look in the mirror any more. At least, not over the facial scar :D




Oh, and that mole next to my nose? Still there!

So our moving sale happened...

I've decided what it is about a trans-Atlantic move that stresses me out so much. And it's not the moving bit!

When you move house, you take your belongings with you. Yes, you have to pack everything up and get it from point A to point B, and that is a major nuisance. But you get to the new house, and you settle in and make it your own. You hang pictures, figure out where to put the telly, plug in the refrigerator, cook your first meal there to get rid of the previous occupants' food smells, etc. And you are surrounded by familiar things. Things that are still yours, just in a new place. Not so with this move, or the one we did over 11 years ago.

What we are trying to do, essentially, is erase our existence on this island. We are shipping some things over, yes. But we almost have to make it like we never existed over here. Our belongings aren't moving to a new place with us. They are being scattered all over the place, either with friends or through charity shops. Our house will have to be cleaned out and stripped of our presence. Even our car, that ridiculous soccer mom Renault that I hated for the first month I drove it, will either be scrapped or sold to another family. It will be like we were never here.

This move would be so much easier if I could just pack a few suitcases and boxes, and then go. It would feel like an adventure then, instead of the slow and systematic dismantling of an entire life. Four of them, actually.

A funny thing happened on Saturday, as we tried to sell off our earthly possessions. I lost it over an antique white enamel bowl. Such a simple thing, but I loved it. Irrationally! Martin and I picked it up on an antiquing day, not long after the children both started going to school full time. We went to some random town near Harrogate that is famous for its' antique shops, and rummaged around this converted factory. It was such a lovely day, and this old bowl was the icing on the cake for me. It is HUGE! And really old, with chips in the enamel that have rusted. The age and the rust made it all the more beautiful to me. And when our friend Naomi asked if I was selling it, I almost cried. Over a rusty old bowl. Plenty of other things that I love have been sold and taken away, but that bowl nearly undid me. I don't care about the clothes and shoes that I'm giving away, or the furniture we are selling. I don't even miss the microwave and toaster, both of which have already gone! But the memories tied to that bowl are so lovely, and I wanted to clutch it to my chest and hold on to it forever. So silly! I'm normally not that sentimental. Or emotional.

It's been tough to start saying goodbye to friends as well. We've met so many wonderful people, who have enriched our lives in countless ways. Luckily, I have my family to look forward to. They are the best sort of friends--the ones who stick with you no matter what. And I know we will meet new people, and rekindle old friendships as well. I am excited about the prospect. And so happy to be able to participate in the family events that we have missed out on for the past decade! There's the sealing of the little Bassetts, the birth of my newest niece or nephew, their blessing, Edith's baptism and confirmation, where her many uncles and her grandpa will be able to participate in the ordinance, the family reunions, and so much more. It makes me unbelievably sad that I have missed two weddings, a funeral, and more baby blessings, birthdays, and baptisms than I can count.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that things are pretty bittersweet right now. So many different feelings, each one contradicting the next. The only thing I know for certain is that our little family will be together, and that's what matters the most. Home is where the heart is, and my heart resides in Martin, Dylan, and Edith.

Still, a large part of me doesn't want to leave my home here.

Eek!

Looking at flights to the USA. Getting a little bit queasy/nervous. Not about moving though. About the flight. I hate flying!

Well, let me re-phrase that. I don't hate flying. I hate preparing to fly, checking in to fly, and dealing with customs and rechecking baggage. Ugh!

First of all, there is the stress of getting to the airport on time (a huge deal when you are married to a man named Martin John Gilbert). Then there is the pressure of getting everybody checked in for the flight, making sure all the documents and passports are in order, etc. Then there is the massive ball-ache of queueing for security. Then it's finding the gate. And after all the rushing around, it is the absolute boredom of waiting to board.

Take-off is fun. I love that moment when you feel the airplane lift off the ground. Exciting, and a little bit terrifying. Kind of like that first drop on a roller coaster, but in reverse. Unfortunately, the flight lasts a little bit longer than your average roller coaster ride. at least 5 hours (for my travelling purposes) of being confined to one spot, eating when told to, peeing at a massive inconvenience to anyone seated in your row, and breathing in other people's germs and flatulence. Man, I feel sick just writing about it.

And when you land, it doesn't get easier. For us, it is a trip to collect our bags, go through customs (and immigration, this time around. Eek!), re-check our bags, and find our next gate. After that stress, it is once again the boredom of waiting for the next flight. It is cranky kids who just want to get some dinner and go to bed. It is restless legs, and having to sit on the floor because your gate area seats are all taken. It's a huge building full of grumpy people who also hate travelling. And they hate you even more when they see that you are flying with children. Nobody likes to sit next to a family on a flight--not even me, and I HAVE children. With me!

But it is exciting to think that in just a month's time we will be winging our way across the Atlantic towards home. It's been too long. And once we get there, I am sure I'll be excited to be home. As Martin keeps reminding me, "Think about how much you hate coming back to England when we have been to see your family." He is right, of course. He quite often is. Right now it feels like too much of a wrench to be exciting though. I still have all these doubts about whether we are doing the right thing or not.

We are going through all of our possessions right now, and deciding what to keep, throw away, give away, or sell. It's super stressful and bloomin' hard work! But we are getting it done. Because we don't want another move like the one that brought us here. Remember that, mom and dad? All that stuff? All those panic attacks? That was a bad scene. I need to keep it together for the kids' sake, if nothing else.

Moving. A pain no matter what. A pain on steroids when crossing oceans and continents!

Our (hopefully) last trip to the US Embassy, London

First of all, let me say that even though I LOVE London I am always glad to get back to sleepy little North Lincolnshire. Cities are great, but I prefer a much slower pace now!

The trip down was pretty uneventful, which is what you want for a long journey. We left at 5:40am. Not nice! I drove 'til Peterborough. I refuse to drive south of there, and since Martin pretty much insists on taking the A1 instead of the M1, he gets to drive the last hour. Everyone else had a nap. Nice, quiet drive for me. We got to Cockfosters in good time, and onto the Picadilly with time to spare. We arrived at the embassy early, carrying all of our bags for the trip. Booked a flat through Air B&B and couldn't check in until after 2pm. We found out then that the kids and I couldn't go in with Martin, so we kissed him goodbye and I took the kids out on my own. We got some breakfast at a little café nearby...





This kid loves selfies almost as much as I do. If I ever want to cheer her up, I just whip out my phone and ask, "Do you wanna take a selfie?" Instant smiles!

After our meal, we decided to walk over to Buckingham Palace. We got most of the way there, too. But we stopped to look at bus routes and discovered that we were AT the bus stop for the Natural History Museum. Just then, the bus pulled up. Since it was raining, we decided to give Buckingham Palace a miss. So off to the museum we went!

At this point, I'd just like to point out that I successfully navigated us around London using the bus system. Super proud of myself, since I usually leave that bit up to Martin!

We ended up getting off at the Victoria and Albert museum and having a little wander through there first. I love the V&A. It's just so weird and quirky! The kids were a little bit less enthusiastic, but had a good time with the audio presentations in a few of the rooms. When they couldn't handle it any more, we moved on to the Natural History museum. They were better there, though it was absolutely heaving with school children.

While we were there, I got a call from Martin. He was done at the embassy. All is in order, but he was missing a few vital pieces of paperwork. They can all be e-mailed over, so we are good to book flights, etc. even though the greencard hasn't been officially approved yet. Hooray! He met us at the museum, then we headed to our rental.

The flat was ok. Nothing too special, but the price was good and it was on Edgware Road, near the embassy. Vital, as our appointment the next day for Dylan's passport renewal was at 9:30am! We chilled for a bit, then went for a wander to find a place to eat. Settled on a Lebanese restaurant called Fattoush. The food was incredible! I will definitely miss interesting and exotic food when we move back to rural Utah...

The next morning was an early one. We got a bus back to the embassy and sorted out Dylan's U.S. passport. It actually arrived at our house yesterday. The process was quick and painless, and the family are nearly ready to travel.

After the embassy, we gambled a little bit and took the kids to the Tate Modern. I say gamble, because past excursions to art galleries have been a bit hit and miss. Mostly, the kids end up getting bored. We thought the Tate Modern might be different, because modern art is so weird and wonderful. Turns out, we were right. We had a delightful 1.5 hour trip around the museum, saw some Monets, a few Picassos, and a couple of Dalis. Some interactive stuff as well, which was fun. These were my favourites:


It's some guy named Gerhard Richter. Weirdly, about a week after we saw his work, I heard him mentioned somewhere else. Love the style and the scale and the colours, and, well, everything about them. They feel so free and easy!



Just thought this stairway was super cool. The museum is in the old Battersea power station in the bank of the Thames, and the building seems like as much of a work of art as the stuff inside it. Such an amazing space!





Then it was a walk across the Thames to the Tube station, and a long train ride back to the car. And an even longer drive home. But it was a lovely trip all the same, and we are that much closer to our next big adventure!

Baby milestones...a previously unpublished draft!

Edith woke up last week and decided that she was all about the solid food. She's gone from one "solid" meal a day to three, and I'm considering adding a few little snacks as well. She's sitting up and really taking an interest in toys now, and she's also started putting everything in her mouth. It's as if she turned into a baby instead of a newborn over night.

I love these milestones. There is nothing more fascinating than watching a helpless new baby develop ever so slowly into an independent child. I'd imagine watching them become an adult is fascinating (and frightening) as well.

Dylan slept at his nanna's house on Sunday night, and it was GREAT! Especially because Edith slept through the night and we were able to go back to sleep on Monday morning until nearly half past eight. But it was so quiet without Dylan there. Bath time was very quiet, and story and prayer time was near enough silent. It was strange, because Dylan hasn't even been talking properly for a year now, but we are so used to him talking that it's hard to imagine a time when he didn't speak.

I am pretty excited for Edith to start talking. Obviously she is babbling like crazy now, and has started experimenting with different sounds. She has such a sweet little voice--already deeper than Dylan's so I think she will have a low, husky voice when she grows up.

I'm also absurdly excited for Edith's hair to be long enough for me to style it.

This having kids thing is pretty crazy. Being a stay at home mom isn't my idea of a good time, really. It's hard work nearly all the time, and that work goes largely unacknowledged and unappreciated. But being home with my two beautiful children is still rewarding, and I am still happy. Most of the time, anyway.

Our family's "staycation" was fun, and just what I needed to shake me out of my self-pitying funk. We had such fun hanging out as a family, going shopping, visiting family and friends, going swimming, and just being together. Next days off--Christmas. But Martin had a chat with the Place owner about having two days off in a row once a month, and that is really good, too.

And now for something completely different!

Edith had her ballet show last weekend. Three performances, at three hours long each! She's been doing dancing lessons for over a year, but this was her first show. She loved it!

I've a new respect for my parents--they went to every dance recital for their 5 girls. That is some next level parenting, right there. Because even though I enjoyed watching my baby girl dance, that show was BORING! The older girls were quite good. A few of them were exceptional, and they had been given plenty of dancing solos. But most of it was just a whole lot of mediocrity.

Edith was one of the quite good ones, obviously. And I am a very honest parent in print. I would have told her I was proud of her and admired how she tried hard regardless of her performance, and then rolled my eyes behind her back and quietly encouraged her to try other things. But she is a very good dancer! She has a great sense of rhythm and is incredibly graceful and light on her feet.

Her class did two numbers. They danced to "In Summer" from "Frozen," and wore adorable snowman costumes with top hats and canes. And then they did this "Wiggle" number. She was dressed in emerald green sequins, and even without them she would have sparkled. Seriously, adorable. Except on the first night, when she seemed to spend a fair amount of time with her finger up her nose. She and her friend Connie also helped with the younger girls' dance numbers, so she got to wear a cheerleader-esque costume and a beautiful baby blue tutu. She just melted my heart.

Remember what a homely little baby she was? I knew she would be beautiful when she got older! Her daddy's going to need to get a shotgun. Good thing we'll be back in 'Merica!

It's strange to take the back seat. To be the one in the audience while your child performs. Strange, but nice. I love to see my children do well. Parenthood brings up all sorts of weird emotions. Even though I've been a mother for over 9 years now, it sometimes feels so fresh and new to me. Maybe because I am just making it up as I go along!

Incidentally, photography was not allowed. Sorry mom, no pictures. Just take my word for it--she was beautiful. Completely radiant, from the inside out. I think my mother-in-law will share her copy of the DVD though...