sinking

there is a great pressure from above, below, around
i am as a ship, sinking slowly to the bottom of a great trench
ill equipped to manage the force closing in

my outlook, my view of the outside, begins to distort and twist
my supporting braces begin to buckle
screws shear, metal screeches

water begins to pour in
rooms fill up, possessions are ruined, furniture and materials flood
feelings, desires, hopes, dreams, these of much value yet little substance, float freely, until they too are overcome.

I come to rest at the bottom
mangled and torn, damaged and broken
beyond hope, beyond repair, beyond reach

The bizarre logic of playstation

Middle Child: “If you come in last this time, and I come in first next time we both win!”

Oldest Child: “It’s a test of skill, not of friendship or how much we like each other!”

a glimpse.

I am not the person I used to be. To me, at least, that is apparent. I was once the person who didn’t care if she spoke a bit to loudly, if she made a scene, if perhaps she even “talked to much”. I made decisions on the spur of the moment without considering anything other than how I FELT about them. Perhaps those things aren’t actually considered qualities but, that was who I was. So, it was ok. I was perhaps, quite naieve. Strangely, despite everything I have seen, all that I have been through in my not yet 30 years on this earth, I have always been naive. It so rarely occurred to me that people may not be genuine, that everything should not always be taken at face value.

I am not that person any more. Perhaps it is being a mother or getting married, moving to a new country, or being immersed in a new culture that has changed me. Perhaps it is simply the act of growing up, or perhaps even the constant strain of money worries and the stress of managing a household of five people.

Whatever it is I have changed. I am drawn, now. I am cynical, and bitter. I mock and I am scornful. I do not trust people. I try not to raise my voice in public because people “will talk“. I don’t cause a scene because it will make me look bad. I try not to say very much to people I am not more than mere acquaintances with, and I find myself abruptly ending a conversation with people I know because I am afraid they will think I talk to much. I apologise to people for even speaking in the first place.

I saw a woman walk out of the grocery store the other day. She had Gray hair, messily pinned atop her head. Her mouth was set into a cement frown, and wrinkles creased her forehead. She looked like a woman who has been beaten down, slowly but steadily through the years. A woman who has no hope, no laughter, no peace at all left inside her. And I stopped in my tracks, and I saw myself in 30 years.

History

Hope.
Change.

Will the people live up to the leader?

Chocolate

The little ones love chocolate.

Rafe thought perhaps even his sisters head was made out of chocolate and he could take a bite out of it. Like a big chocolate Easter bunny.

Thankfully we managed to convince him not to. But now we try and avoid getting to close to him when there’s chocolate around. Just in case…

The view from below ain’t nearly as nice…

I am lucky. My desk is on the second floor of a converted barn surrounded by fields. I am right in front of the window. On good days, the view is amazing. On bad days, you can watch the fog roll and the rain fall for ages. It is stunning.

In the morning, I am the first to arrive. The parking lot is normally deserted, and while I am clearly visible at my desk through the window, there is no one there to see me, so that’s ok.

After walking up from the train station this morning I was feeling a bit sweaty in that up top personal spot of every female. I lifted my shirt (partially but enough to get the job done) to take care of it with some deodorant and all was well with the world.

Not to long later I suddenly realized there was someone in the parking lot below trying desperately to get my attention. It was Tim, our mid twenties- sweet as pie and probably still virginal, IT guy. Who had been there looking up and calling my name and waving his arms the whole time.

Swimming Gala

His first competitive swim. He was nervous and excited. The pool was full of people. The whole club was there. Coaches, parents and ASA officials looked on. Occasionally shouting at swimmers, rounding them up and giving them tips. Reminding them sternly not to eat.

His was event 16, the 50m. Butterfly. He simply didn’t have the experience to beat out the older swimmers, but he came 4th out of 7, and we were thrilled. The 100m Freestyle was a bit harder, he’s never had to swim that distance before, not like this. He fell behind after 50m. But he kept it up, kept pushing. He came third out of three, to the sounds of the crowd clapping and his clubmates cheers.

Dev was pleased, and we were over the moon for him. We soon learned he had been disqualified from the butterfly for not keeping his legs together. He was crushed, swore he’d never do another gala.

He got dressed and we left the pool, not even knowing what his time for the freestyle had been.

I explained to Devon that it was his first time, and he’s not emant to WIN, but to learn from it. I really heaped the praise on, and when he went to bed, he had a smile on his face, and had promised he would try again.

Baby. It’s cold outside.

Temperatures in England have fallen to sub-zero temperatures. I believe it has been down to -14c overnight here in Southern England. It has been a virtual winter wonderland. Yesterday the kids were able to walk on Petersfield Lake. Braver souls than us ventured out as far as the middle of the lake, playing hockey and walking dogs.

It has been amazing. The kids and I are enthralled, driving down the motorway (freeway) we have our windows down all the way, barely noticing the freezing wind whipping it’s way through the car as we gaze in awe at the iced over fields, the trees with their heavy burden of ice.

This winter has been bitterly cold. But it lacks the constant, constant horrible rain of previous winters. We have had two burst pipes in the garage, we wear multiple thick fleecy layers when going out, but we can walk on water. The air is cold, but dry, and crisp. It is the kind of winter I expected from England, and I am glad England has finally produced it.

Still no snow, though.

Why I am lucky to be a white American…

Me: “…anyway, so since I hadn’t actually been here three years when my three year visa expired, I couldn’t apply for permanent residence and had to apply for an extension to make up the gap. I’ll have to apply for permanent residence this year.”

White British (upper working class) colleague: “Oh, is that expensive?”

Me: “Um. yes. Decidedly so. We’ve spent about £2000 on visas so far. And may well have spent another £2000 by the time we have citizenship.”

WBC: “Well. You know, Erin. If you were a Muslim you could have just come over here for free with 7 kids, get the government to pay for your nice big house and not even have to work!”

Me: “um.” (I KNOW! Imagine a rich, non secular country that allows people from impoverished/corrupt nations who are in danger of being killed or tortured to move there without having to pay astronomical fees they could never afford and then actually giving them a place to live and money to live on when they got there! That really is so moral and disgusting!)

Christmas Tradition

His head is warm, his eyes are bright, his cheeks and ears are red.

With three days until Christmas, Rafe is fighting off a nasty bug. Or would be, if I could actually get him to sleep, or eat, or even drink anything…

“Please, daddy dearest, no pictures. It tires me so.”

Despite whatever Gremlins are attacking his poor little immune system, he is still so very excited for Christmas.

So, Santa? Please could you make him well in time?