In which I make a total twat of myself

by Mothership on January 14, 2010

While my beloved laptop was at the menders I was pretty much forced to spend some time on my desktop computer which also happens to be my music computer, or at least it used to be before the main hard drive died towards the end of last year.
In case you are wondering I did have a back up of the data (Yes!!!!), but I didn’t have a full bells and whistles back up of everything so that it could be magically restored at the mere press of a button (Bugger it!)

I did have a new hard drive installed back then, but between my trip to London for the gig plus Christmas and the attendant merriment I didn’t really have any time to go into my studio, nor the inclination if I’m perfectly honest.
But with no lovely Powerbook and my fingers not nimble enough for blogging via the iPhone keyboard I resentfully tripped into the dark room with machines that (no longer) go ping to switch on the ancient behemoth that is my G5 and look at the pristine, vacant and virginal operating system and pray, fervently, that somehow I would be able to remember how to install all of my music software programs, make them speak to one another, and then get some sound out of the big silver box again so I could actually hear what was going on.

It turned out that this was really, really, really boring.

And actually quite hard, involving tedious reading of manuals, endless waiting on hold and then getting through to superior young men who spoke languages I didn’t understand -purportedly English but actually some kind of muso-technospeak that is a Klingon-Sound Engineer hybrid -whose ultimate message was that my computer was old (like me) and crap (prob. like me, too) and if I just spent a few hundred dollars more then I’d be able to buy something even more complicated and hard to understand but I’d be much cooler.
(But no, they wouldn’t help me install anything because that is not what Tech Support does, I could only speak to them once I’d installed something and had a problem with it.)

You know, I really liked it better before when I could go into the dark room with machines that go ping, just turn it on and it all worked perfectly and make peculiar noises and irritate my neighbours.
Even better, write tiny pieces of music and charge extortionate amounts of money for them. That was LIVIN’!

Harking back on those halcyon days reminded me that the reason I was enduring this computer hell was because I was trying to restart my company, and to that end, why didn’t I just do a little networking for a change of pace and try to drum up some new business?
That way, I reasoned, I’d have some more money, could buy some new, shiny stuff, and even better, I could hire my own Klingon to come and do all this for me.

I love delegating.

So, off to LinkedIn I went and had a look through my contacts.

Aha! There was somebody in San Francisco who had contacted me and expressed an interest in my work a couple of years back (BT – Before Two). I sort of dropped the ball on that one, but I could look him up, ask if he wanted to hear more about it and then say I’d be up in the Bay Area next month, which is actually true – I’m taking the children up to visit a friend – and tie it all in.  Husband is planning to remain in Stepford, which is a bit sad for me as it will be over Valentine’s day, but he’s very tied up in an important work thing right now.  Anyway, I digress slightly..

I sent my contact a nice, light professional email:

I hope the New Year finds you well.

You may remember we spoke briefly a couple of years ago on the phone about (my work) and were perhaps going to speak further if the opportunity arose. (The contact came through xxx. )

Would this be something you’d be interested in hearing more about?

I plan to be in the Bay Area in mid February and again in March and would love to meet with you if you have some time.
Otherwise, always happy to chat on the phone.

Best

Mothership

About half an hour later I got a very nice response:


Great to hear from you!

Yes, I would be very interested in talking to you.

Let me know when you will be here and we can meet for coffee or lunch.

Send an email or call my mobile


I was very happy!  I wanted to share this with Husband immediately. And although my friend would surely watch the children for me, perhaps I could inveigle Husband into coming up to the city with us by impressing him with my business go-gettingness (is that a word?) and then he could look after them and I could take some meetings and come rushing back to them all full of news and excitement about entering the real world again with the full support of my family followed by romantic Valentine’s dinner…
I forwarded him the correspondence with a note of my own attached:

Hurrah! Might NEED u to come 2 SF 4 valentine w/end now ;)) cunning plan…

And ten minutes later I got an email from my contact.


Cunning indeed.  Let me know when you’re here.


AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Just a bit embarrassing. I actually screamed out loud and went bright red when I saw that. It was a terrible, terrible moment and I could not sit still. Oh my GOD! How completely awful, although actually quite funny if it hadn’t been ME who was such a class A PRATT!.

I wrote back to him saying that I felt really silly, it had been meant for my husband and he wrote back saying he’d figured that out immediately but couldn’t resist the humour. He very kindly said he’d had a mixup like that recently where he’d sent an email to a colleague he’d meant for his wife and the colleague had been pretty put out (I wonder what he said?) so I wasn’t the only one, not to feel bad.

I can only hope that this means we’re on a more *cough* human footing – it certainly broke the ice. But every time I think about it I STILL want to plunge my head into a bucket of ice water and scream.

However, I reason that this was a baptism of fire. I have now made the first contact and with that made a total arse of myself, so I shan’t bat an eyelid at cold calling and dismissive rejection, deciphering Klingon/Engineerspeak will be a mere bagatelle and installing awkward music software on the wind-up G5 is going to be a palpable relief.

Onward and upward.

Please feel free to share with me your own communication *ahem* errors. (this is a polite way of BEGGING)

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In the blood

by Mothership on January 10, 2010

My children surprise and amaze me on an almost daily basis.

I knew that (theoretically) they would not be babies forever and would grow into children and (deep, disbelieving breath) independent adults one day.  I have been enjoying, for the most part, the blossoming of Five into a confident little person with her own unique thoughts and personality.  But the other evening, after teeth had been brushed, clothes for the morning laid out and the lights in the bedroom dimmed, as I bent to kiss her goodnight  she took me completely by surprise saying

“Just to let you know, Mum, I’ll be awake very late tonight because I have to teach school”

“School?” I said.  “Who are you teaching?”

“All my animals, of course!”

It brought back so sharply the many nights that I had lain awake as a child conducting my own night classes with an array of stuffed animals and a few imaginary friends (some of whom I was intensely ambivalent about). It was not, as I recall, exactly a game. It was deadly serious to me and I would dole out lessons and discipline with a grave sense of duty and felt genuinely saddened when I was forced to punish anyone who was naughty. My favourite teddy, Huckle, was actually never naughty and always got top marks, but I reasoned that this was partly why I loved him best. There was an (imaginary) girl in pioneer garb, a little like Laura Ingalls, who was always in trouble and unfortunately had to be put in the corner for most of the evening. Most of the others plodded along and did as they were told. I was strict but fair and frequently received gifts from my pupils.

I wonder what happens in Five’s classroom? Is it anything like mine?

So funny and sweet to see yourself in your child.

Today was Sunday and Husband had very kindly planned to take us all for to lunch to a beautiful restaurant right on the beach where one can spot surfers, dolphins, pelicans and even the occasional sea lion in the water. It’s a favourite family treat, so it was somewhat of a surprise when we got into the car and Five asked where we were going, again, and then started loudly to complain.
She started off by saying that she didn’t like the restaurant.
Then she whined that she hated the beach.
Then she cried that she HATED sand and she DIDN’T WANT TO GO!

This went on for some time.

I pointed out to her that we were going, she usually did like the beach, we were going to the restaurant anyway and why not think of the french fries she was going to get to eat?

Fail.

She cried angrily that she DIDN’T want lunch, she WASN’T hungry (she was) and she WASN’T going to have french fries or ANY FUN at ALL!

I said quietly that I could hear she was sad and having  a bad day but I loved her anyway, even if she felt awful, and this was a terrible way to feel.
I reached into the back of the car and held her ankle (she wouldn’t hold my hand). She carried on whining and crying. Poor Two was optimistically trying to look at birds and diggers out of the window and point them out to her with zero positive response.
Husband and I looked at each other and he asked if we should turn around. I thought not, she’d either get over in a few minutes or we’d switch strategy from good cop to bad cop and tell her to suck it up and take one for the team (on the grounds that there is sympathy and understanding, and then there is letting a five year old ruin a family outing).
Suddenly, without warning, she said brightly

“Isn’t it great that the people who build roads remember to plant beautiful flowers beside them so we can all look at them and be happy? I love flowers, look Two! Look at that beautiful tree and the mountain!”

Husband and I looked warily at one another.

“Hm. That was quite a change” he said

“Yes, quite mercurial, isn’t she?” I replied. “Well, glad it’s sunny again! Not always easy to live with, but hugely rewarding”

He smiled at me tenderly, with a knowing look.

Oh.

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The Mystery of the Missing Post

by Mothership on January 6, 2010

The last post was so crap I was forced to delete it.

Oh. I didn’t make that very hard to solve, did I?  (Note to self: Must make plots more complex in order to draw readers in..)

Apologies to my one lovely commenter, London City Mum, (medal forthcoming for her stoicism in the face of maudlin self pity with total lack of entertainment as a distraction) who very kindly offered me some sage advice which I will accept as soon as I stop being Neville (below).

Of course I still have nothing interesting to write, so I am going, for the very first time, to give you a VIDEO to watch which will feature (most appropriately) my aforementioned namesake and all the other Gashleycrumb Tinies.

Ooh! The delights of YouTube!

However, there is no substitute for an old fashioned pen-and-ink BOOK so if you don’t own this one, buy it immediately. No child’s education is complete without Edward Gorey and it is just not possible to grow up and be a proper malcontent such as my good self without his mighty works.

Have you done that yet?

Good.

Now you can sit back and enjoy the show.

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2009 Highlights

by Mothership on January 2, 2010

I have been very kindly asked to share my highlights of 2009 by A Modern Mother .

Flattering as this was, it was also momentarily alarming as it seemed that the stroke of New Year had wiped my brain completely clear of memory, and I had stumbled into the new decade like a latter day Kaspar Hauser with better footwear (Kaspar Marcos? Imelda Hauser?)

Then I remembered that I had actually written down what had happened over the previous twelve months thanks to the blog so I’d be able to dredge up something to talk about.

Apologies to those loyal readers who have already been through this journey once with me. It’s no doubt extremely dull to hear me waffle on about the year gone by – a bit like being cornered at a party with me yapping on in a great monologue about what I did next, ooh and then I said to him and then I went, and he did, but then I ….

The good thing is that you won’t have to pretend to spot someone you have to speak to urgently across the room, or ring yourself on the iPhone in order to get away, you can click quietly and I’ll never know…

Five finally grew old enough to take on shopping trips as a compadre.

I actually identified something that I really wanted for my birthday.  Even more shockingly, I got it!

I decided to go to London by myself on a little jaunt, inspired by a random lunch invitation.

I made a new, young musician friend (who incidentally still writes to me and sends me his fledgeling efforts!)

My darling son makes me laugh and laugh.

I was asked to do a gig in London which thrilled me to my fingertips, so off I went again. Had to brush off quite a bit of dust, though..

Felt gratitude at how very, very lucky I am.

Looking forward to 2010 and seeing what that will bring. It’s a good thing I wrote this all down, I would never have remembered it all.

Nappy Valley Girl, GeekyMummy,MetropolitanMum, London City Mum, and The Spice Spoon, what were your highlights of 2009?

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Resolutions

by Mothership on December 31, 2009

A decade ago I was performing in front of the largest audience of my career.

Forty thousand people at an outdoor concert and I was the headline act. Not bad, eh?

It was pretty exciting and yes, it was the best New Year’s Eve I’ve ever had so far. I don’t expect to top it in terms of glamour and self-importance.

What I didn’t know was that it was also the beginning of a whole new era for me. Not of more big concerts, navel-gazing and VIP hotel suites – in fact it was the last of those – but rather one that involved a grown-up look at life:

Marriage, babies, sensible career. (Not necessarily in that order and not always at the same time.)

Much like pop-stardom, none of these has turned out quite like I expected it to:

The marriage, whilst in general a positive thing, has been at times hard work, even though Husband is a very nice man. I think I’m a very nice woman but still, it’s not always easy.

The babies are completely delightful, delicious and scrumptious. They’re also rather hard work and, dammit, they’re not actually babies anymore.
Do I get any money back for that? They appear to have GROWN without permission.

The sensible career was shocking at first, then turned out rather well. Then the babies got in the way. Now I can’t seem to find it anymore.

Still.

I have resolved (once I have finished overeating for the season, sometime after lunch tomorrow) to make 2010 and the decade it heralds the beginning of a whole new era for me.

Not of more marriages, babies and sensible careers, but rather one that involves a whimsical and lighthearted look at life.

I hereby resolve to:

Respond with laughter to as many situations as I possibly can, no matter how grim

Bake more cakes (and try not to eat them all)

Dance a lot

Spend more time with people I really like

Spend less time with people who make me anxious or drained

Go to places that make me feel adventurous

Ask for help when I need it

Hug my children a lot

Know that I deserve to be loved

Accept nothing less than love

Give nothing less than love

Happy New Year!

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No Room at The Inn

by Mothership on December 22, 2009

Every year around this time I become gripped in a frenzy of manic tidying and sorting as if I must make sure that the house is clear of detritus, excess and little wheels off things in preparation for a host of new detritus, excess and little wheels off things that will inevitably make their way in via the Christmas tree and *ahem* adjunct impulse purchases that seem imperative at the time.

I try not to throw too much into the bin, but rather bag up what we no longer use and take it to the charity shop or give it directly to someone who may need it. It has become increasingly difficult to do the latter, though, as Husband clings to his disgraceful, tattered old underwear as if they were the Shroud of Turin (and believe me, the latter looks in considerably better nick) and the children wail when I try to get rid of baby items or toys that they haven’t played with in literally years and never will again so I have to stay up late at night and sneak my bags into my car and do it under a clandestine cloak of darkness.

It’s not an easy task, you know.

But I just can’t stand having all that stuff spilling out all over the place and it’s also quite hard having all the baby gear LOOKING at me expectantly in a broody sort of way. I’m already dealing with Two being a little boy rather than a squidgy baba and I’m in the process of letting go of not having any more tiny ones, so it really is time to make a clean sweep of the stuff.
What am I keeping it for? It’s just taking up space and making me feel nostalgic to boot.

Last week I quietly put three bags (baaa) of baby clothes, a moses basket, a baby bjorn, a nursing pillow and various other items in the boot of my car without mentioning it to the rest of the family and then after dance class I went to a local charity shop to drop off the goods. It was closed, being 9pm, but I drove around to the drop off area at the rear of the store.

I was just about to get out of the car when I saw a head pop up out of a dumpster by the back door.
I froze, suddenly afraid. Was he an ax-murderer?
The head went down again and re-emerged. A small man jumped out clutching a pillow.

I realised the dumpsters were where you dropped off items, not rubbish and he was foraging in them.

“Have you lost something?”

He walked towards me, smiling and open faced; a slight, young, brown skinned man.

“No hablo ingles”

“Do you need something? “

He looked hopefully at the car.

This boy was not a threat to me. He needed help.

I turned off the engine and got out.

“I only have things for a baby. Do you have a baby?”

“Si! Baby! Baby!”

I opened the boot and his face lit up.  We couldn’t speak one another’s language but he managed to express to me that his baby was newborn and he was collecting things to make the mother more comfortable and trying to find some things for the child who had nothing. He was ecstatic to have the moses basket and the nursing pillow (he very sweetly tried it on himself) and I showed him how to wear the Baby Bjorn and told him to be careful to button the sides for a newborn baby so he didn’t slip out.

So close to Christmas.     In the world’s richest country.

How could he have nothing and be foraging in a dumpster?

He took everything.

Including any last shreds of nostalgia or sadness over my baby things.

Feliz Navidad, Madre, Padre e Bebe. Muchas gracias por el regalo

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Ten Years Today

by Mothership on December 18, 2009

It is ten years to the day since I first met Husband.

I was going to write a post about the night we met (a romantic and improbable tale) to mark the occasion prior to us putting on our glad rags and escaping the infants for a night on the tiles which we agreed should include  small expensive items on snooty menus and late night dancing at a dark, loud nightclub, but then this morning Husband inconveniently fractured his leg.
He can barely walk and is in some pain so we’ve decided to postpone this particular celebration until he is able to show his considerable dancefloor skillz. I know he feels terrible, and not slightly foolish about this, but I actually don’t mind at all. In fact, not too long after we met he fell off a rock (long story) and ended up tearing all the ligaments in his right ankle just prior to the first long weekend (Valentine’s, no less) I was due to spend chez-lui in Fontainebleau, near the famous forest.
He was devastated – he’d had a full itinerary of hiking, cycling, bouldering and other outdoor pursuits planned for us, but I was delighted – we could stay in bed, drink champagne, make love and eat cheese.

What else do you do in France in February?

The visit was a roaring success. I wish I’d known which rock he’d slipped on – I would have kissed it like the Blarney stone.

We booked a little restaurant around the corner for Valentine’s day dinner which was on the Monday.  That evening, though, the skies were pelting with rain so hard that just to walk a few steps meant one’s feet were soaked and any semblance of a hairstyle was ruined, even under an umbrella, after more than a quick dash to the car.
Husband insisted on driving me right to the door of the restaurant. He escorted me inside, settled me at my seat and promised he’d be back as soon as he found a spot for the car.

After about fifteen minutes he returned. I looked up from the table to see him standing in front of me,  his coat and crutches soaking wet.

You look absolutely beautiful he said

It emerged he’d been unable to find a space and had ended up driving home, parking in front of his flat and hobbling back on his torn ankle.
He’d suspected this might happen but his priority had been to keep me warm and dry.

This is the man I’m going to marry I thought.

And I was right.

So if you’re reading this, Husband (and I think you probably are a secret subscriber) I REALLY don’t mind that we’re not going out dancing.

I have some cheese and there may even be a bottle of champagne knocking around somewhere.

As to the leg, well, what can I say?  We’ve been here before..

Happy Anniversary, darling. Here’s to ten more xo

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He’s got legs.

by Mothership on December 10, 2009

Here on the blog my children are called Two and Five.

Of course you all know that they have proper names, even if I don’t spell them out, but in real life the family mostly refers to him as ‘Baby’ because, well, he was a baby a minute ago and he’s the youngest and we haven’t really gotten out of the habit even though he can walk, run, jump and speak short sentences.

Yesterday, in amongst an ordinary sort of rushing-around-running-errands-not-quite-finishing-sentences sort of time, I noticed that Two had suddenly grown up a bit.

I know this should make me happy and proud (and it does), but it also makes me the tiniest bit wistful and sad.

You see in all likelihood – actually, scrap that and call a spade a spade –  he is my last baby and he’s really not a baby any more.

When I was in London last week (was it only last week?) waiting to go on stage for my gig I spent a little time standing by the DJ watching the crowd gear up for a night of raving. While I was there a young man slipped into the booth. Reaching into the pocket of his coat hanging in the corner, he drew out and started unwrapping what at first looked like an individually wrapped string cheese (oh I know, I’m such a MUM) but it actually turned out to be one of those light up sticks that glow when you give it a snap.  He saw me watching with interest and asked me,sweetly, if I would like to have it.

I laughed and said it was very kind, but no, thank you. He should keep it.

Was I sure? he pressed.

Yes, I replied, I had lots at home. My children loved them.

Children?  You CAN’T have children! Ooh, you don’t look old enough!

What a charmer. If he’d been straight I might have thought he’d been flirting with me, but as it was I put it down to makeup, context and happy drugs.

Truth is I barely feel YOUNG enough to have any more children.

Technically I suppose I could squeeze out one more (or two if I was being totally California) if Husband and I were so inclined, but although in theory I’d quite have liked to have more children, in practice I’m not sure I could cope with another right now, and where on earth would we put it? (Our house is on the diminutive side.) Plus Husband has mentioned more than once that he feels very able to cope with two on his own when I need to push off for an afternoon (or a week) but if there were any more he would be far less agreeable.

But most tellingly of all, when I look at little tiny babies I think they’re sweet, I think they’re squishy and adorable, I think their clothes are darling, but I don’t really want to hold them for more than a minute.

So I think I’m done.

Two is my last baby. Who is not a baby anymore.

Tonight, after a period of quiet consideration, he turned to me at supper time and said,

People don’ hab wheels… Dey hab legs.

Yes. That’s right, Two.

People have legs. Hopefully two of them. And every day you use yours to walk a little further away from me.

*smiles bravely through tears, thinking she probably would have bonsai’d him if she had the science*


By the way, Two:  If, perchance, I get stuck with a pair of wheels in my dotage, you will not be obliged to roll me around except perhaps on special occasions and then, only if you feel so inclined.

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O Christmas Tree

by Mothership on December 7, 2009

This past weekend we got our Christmas tree.

I know it’s a bit on the early side but I was very focused on having it up and ready this weekend just gone so that I didn’t descend into a slough of despond after my trip back home which was so wonderful and life-affirming.
I am, of course, ecstatic to see the children again, but you know how it is; after time out of ordinary life it can be a bit of a downer just to slide into the same old day-to-day routines.
Re-entry blues, my mother always called it.

I thought Yuletide festivities would be the perfect antidote.

Friday night they had a Christmas parade in Stepford. It’s usually a very sweet affair with marching bands from all the local junior high schools who play slightly out of time and out of tune, slow-moving floats bearing enthusiastic children holding hands in their Sunday best belting out ‘Frosty the Snowman’ at top volume.
But this year for some strange reason there was a preponderance of monster trucks decorated with antlers and tinsel driven by men in baseball caps with elf ears who found it almost impossible not to punch out a percussive Jingle Bells on their horns or let off impressively loud sirens and flashing lights which tended to drown out the wavering voices of  infants.  There were also some giant flatbeds bearing teenagers wearing santa hats thrusting their pelvises to blaring hip hop music which I rather loved, but overall the impression of the parade was, as Husband said, a little low rent.

I hoped we could get the tree on Saturday and it would be a lovely family outing although I did expect to meet a bit of resistance from Husband.
He is, as I may have mentioned, German, and in his family they only got their tree on the 23rd of December (i.e. one day before they celebrated Christmas) and it is now part of our family tradition to have an argument about when we get ours.

I thought I’d work on Five first. She’s a pretty reliable ally, especially when there is a potential for sugar (I’m thinking candy canes). To my surprise and frank displeasure she vetoed the idea on the grounds that the pine needles might fall off and it was too early. She suggested getting the tree on Christmas Eve.

WHAT??!!!!

Had Husband been coaching her? (strenuously denied by both parties)

Had she been watching A Charlie Brown Christmas? (met first with blank look then subsequent canny offer to view immediately)

Had she developed an early sense of responsibility regarding the creation of mess? (excuse me while I retrieve myself from the floor after hysterical fit of mirth)

Despite my rather impressive and detective-like (I thought) line of questioning, she refused to be drawn and merely told me that the subject was closed.

Those were her words.

Wait, aren’t I the mother?

I turned to Husband, speechless, and he remarked mildly that it was a bit early, perhaps next weekend might be better, and not to get upset with Five, she was just asserting herself after my absence for ten days.

I think he really enjoyed saying that.

Right. Ok then.

Plan B: Make them feel like it’s Christmas already so that they NEED a tree at home (why am I behaving like a child and they so adult? It’s just wrong.)

I casually mention to the children that Santa is going to be downtown on Saturday afternoon. Would they like to visit him? They can tell him what they’d like for Christmas and we can also see some carol singers and have a hot chocolate.
Two is on board immediately. Not because of Santa, you understand. I played dirty chucking in the ‘C’ word because that boy will do anything if there is sugar involved. He’ll even agree to injections quite happily which, come to think of it, does not bode well for the future but that is a story for another day.
Husband suggests we go for a hike prior to seeing Santa which would not particularly be relevant except it means that we turn up for our ‘Santa’s family photo opportunity’ covered in burrs and the kids are wearing the most extraordinary mismatched, filthy, ill-fitting clothes which are their ‘outdoors-with-dad favourites’ (could also be termed ‘the ones mum never lets us wear’) and are in stark contrast to all the other beautifully coiffed and coutured children who have turned out for their Yuletide pictures with the F. Xmas himself.

As it turned out, though, it didn’t actually matter.

We watched all the beautiful families joyfully bound over to Saint Nick, posing happily with him as they had their photos taken beside the big Christmas tree, beaming with their gleaming teeth.

My children looked on suspiciously and shot me dirty looks when I tried to make insincere grownup cheerful sounds about the old man in the red suit.

Santa, being a kindly sort, spotted us lurking and walked, smiling, towards Two in my arms who promptly hid his face.

Hello there, young fella!

more hiding

How’s about you give Santa a high five and tell me what you want for Christmas?

Silence

And you, young lady, why don’t you come over and have your picture taken with Santa? Come with your mom and dad?

Violent shaking of head, protective step behind father’s leg.

Well come on now, Santa won’t eat you! I just want to know what you’d like for Christmas so I can bring it for you and take a picture for my wall!

At this point Five looked completely horrified. The thought of him eating her hadn’t crossed her mind yet but now he mentioned it he was rather fat – this must be the reason.
Two stepped in and cleared up any misunderstandings that might have occurred between the two parties:

DON’T LIKE SANTA!  SANTA GO AWAY NOW!

Santa looked quite hurt. Five looked relieved, Two looked very fierce and Husband was trying to suppress tears of laughter which was just as well as he would have set me off uncontrollably.

The next morning I got up before everyone else and had some time to myself to think. It wasn’t really so important to get the tree immediately after all. I wasn’t going to slide into a slough of despond. There was plenty of Christmas action going on of a completely unexpected and unconventional kind.
My children don’t like Santa. Our town has a festive monster truck parade. My five year old is in charge of the order of festivities. It’s all good and only getting better.
Then Husband woke up and came into the kitchen. He suggested we get the tree that afternoon. I was amazed. Why had he changed his mind? He didn’t really have a reason, he just thought today would be a good day.

I’m not above slipping Santa a note, you know.

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Guest Post: The Spice Spoon

by Mothership on December 1, 2009

When I asked if anyone wanted to do a guest post while I was gallivanting around London I had two volunteers. One was the lovely @deililly who wrote this post here.

The other person who offered – to my enormous pleasure – was one of my favourite bloggers, The Spice Spoon.
Her blog is nominally about food  – full of vivid, mouthwatering photographs of sumptuous dishes that she cooks for her lucky, lucky husband, many of which have been handed down through her Afghan/Pakistani family.
What is so very special about her, though, is that the stories she tells leading up to the recipe are fascinating, emotionally resonant, poignant and deeply evocative of a life at once so different to mine, and yet familiar because she strikes the human chord in all of us.

I do not like cooking very much and I only really care about food when someone puts something delicious right under my nose (happy to oblige chef by eating it!) but I am a compulsive reader of her blog.

I think, after reading this post you will be too.

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Missing Person’s Report

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Has anyone seen my Ami (mother)?

5′ 5″ with hair the colour of ebony. The finest ebony which is found in East Africa. Still. Shiny. Beautiful. Front strands often highlighted in slivers of bronze.

Her skin, glossy and creamy like cappuccino.

She goes out a lot in the evenings with my father, for a night out in Georgetown, DC. A few nights ago she wore a white Biba jumpsuit cinched at the waist with a purple belt. Gold Charles Jourdan sandals, with a matching clutch. Eyelids dusted in shades of lapis lazuli by Mary Quant. Lips glossed, her high cheekbones highlighted a pearlescent shimmer. Surma (kohl) from Pakistan, lining her deep-set eyes. Hair parted down the middle.

I stood next to her as she sat in front of her vanity, applying surma in her eyes from a small, intricately carved antique silver bottle. It belonged to her grandmother. Her mother’s mother. I watched nervously as she used her hand to effortlessly glide the needle-thin surma applicator through her shut eye; opening it to reveal a coal dust-like outline. Like the eyes of women from the Bronze Age. Every summer we went to Lahore, my grandmother would send this surma bottle to the village to have it refilled for her daughter with this onyx dust.

That night, Ami came to my room to tuck me in. I could smell Joy by Jean Patou, the smell that was only my Ami’s. She was winsome and lithe. And beautiful. But I feel Ami disappeared, soon after.

I never filed a Missing Person’s Report, as I am rather confused.

The lady I now see in my family home wears pressed black trousers, a bit loose. I am quite sure this older lady is Ami, but I tell myself, Ami would never wear those trousers. This lady also wears a loose-fitted ivory pullover and flat, black Ferragamo loafers. “Those resemble orthopaedic shoes, the kind I saw in the Farmacia near the Piazza del Popolo,” I think to myself. Her grey hair is dyed auburn and parted to the side. A bit papery and wispy at the ends. The same high-cheekbones and deep-set eyes as my Ami’s. “But my Ami has ebony-coloured hair,” I tell myself.

This lady doesn’t cook much. She stopped cooking after her separation. But on Eid, she makes aromatic rice for me, with those caramelised ribbons of onions which I love. I have to pick out the cloves, I dont know why she adds them in. That day, she also makes a pudding with vermicelli, sugar, full-cream milk, cardamom, almonds and raisins. She stirs the pot on top of the stove all day, waiting for it to become thick and creamy. She serves it to me in a little teacup to drink. To taste before she takes it off the stove. As I greedily sip the hot, creamy, sweet pudding, I nod my head. She always uses special sundarkhani raisins, from Iran.

This lady drives very slowly. I often peer out the window to see her pulling out of the long drive-way, forwarding and reversing a few times. “Not like my petrol-head Ami,” I tell myself. Ami used to drive me down Collingwood Road in our suburb of Washington, DC. The road curved up and down, up and down. She would drive fast till I got butterflies in my stomach and almost threw up my french fries from the McDonald’s Happy Meal.

I love this lady. She answers my calls even when she is driving or when she is asleep at 5 in the morning, when I have forgotten the time difference between Rome and Washington. She buys me an Eid and birthday gift every year, no matter where in the world I am, and gives it to me when she sees me. She teaches me what humility is. She keeps a glass jar of cardamoms next to the tea bags in the kitchen whenever I go home to visit. She knows I like a pod in my tea. She buys Trader Joe’s whole wheat waffles and keeps them in the freezer for me when I visit. Sometimes she forgets the maple syrup. But I slather them with raspberry jam and butter instead. When she sits on her chair to pray, I watch her hands. I recognise them from my childhood. From that day when she applied surma in her eyes. Now they are like putty and soft. She doesn’t sit on the musallah (prayer rug). She tells me it makes her ankles hurt. When she removes her hands from her face, after prayer, her eyes are always wet. I know why. I want to tell her I love her.

I love this lady but I want to ask her, “Have you seen my Ami?” She used to wear blue eyeshadow and jumpsuits, her glossy, black hair resting on her slender back. I haven’t seen her since.

Where did she go?


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