It's Only For A Year

It’s Sunday morning, 7:30 am.  My teenager and I are driving to his semi-final tennis match.  Thrilled he made it to the semi’s, both of us exacerbated by the hour.  What childless person decided it was okay to have the matches starting at 8:00 am on a Sunday??

I will admit, though, that walking through a city on an early Sunday morning is fascinating.  It’s like having the city you love to yourself.  Every random jogger passes by in silhouette against the morning light, the dew has time to glisten against the green grass before being stomped on, every car echoes down the street with a gentle hum and the pace is slow and peaceful. I had a wonderful conversation in my head with a dear friend and I didn’t get interrupted once.

Then I got to the courts and there was instant shift.  The tennis world here is fiercely competitive.  My niece is number one in California in her age group and therefore I’m aware of the work involved to be the best.  But all us ‘pakcs‘ – parents of kids who may try for college sports – make up the bulk of the competition, and boy those side-lines can be nasty.  I felt like I was playing my own head game against the mom next to me at the tournament.  Her son kept screaming ‘Vamos!’, Spanish for ‘let’s go’, every time my son made a mistake.  She shot me a victorious look at each scream; I wanted to just shoot her.

What strikes me immediately in my America vs England comparisons, are the facilities.  Even local park courts have great surfaces and proper nets.  Our courts in Richmond had this strange pebbley surface that sort of resembled asphalt, and mostly broken nets.  In the private sector things are uniformly cushy, but London is indoor tennis and LA…well, I did promise a few friends never to mention the weather here.

Aside from tennis, the astro fields here are pristine for football and soccer, there’s basketball hoops everywhere, even in alley parking lots, and the boardwalk down by the beach has been transformed into an outdoor gym.  Being fit and sporty is part of being a Los Angelino and it’s actually easy because there’s so much choice.  For us, it’s hiking the incredible trails overlooking the sea, all styles of yoga including Yoga-hop where they blast out tunes for 90 minutes to ashtanga poses, rollerblading down the boardwalk, cycling, rowing…  For kids there’s surfing the great Pacific, skateboarding at Tony Hawk’s skate park, karate from Great Masters from China, and best of all for us so far, gymnastics.

My son participated in the only gymnastics academy in London, and did quite well. It was a big room that prided itself on its new tumbling run and two balance beams.  Here, several Russian gold medalists have set up three different academies and I swear, it’s gymnastics on steroids!  The gym itself is astonishing;  it looks like you could hold the Olympic trials in it.  My son is beyond excited.  He went from doing cartwheels and front flips to double back handsprings and flips, over the bloody horse!  Awesome.

Husband and I joke about the apparrell one gets away with wearing out in public in LA.  Ugg-Nation long since took over our feet and if you’re covering your bits and pieces enough, you can go out in it.  It’s important to get good looking yoga/workout clothes because invariably, you’ll be wearing it all day.  Every adult I know works out, including my mother, and every child has a sport.  Or two. Or three.  I can only imagine how difficult it is to have a kid who doesn’t like sports.  In London I must say that those types of kids could explore fencing, drama and even boys ballet and not feel like they’re out of the ordinary; and, their parents can embrace their child’s differences with more ease.  Here, not so.  People really push for their child to be a part of a team sport and to exercise.  It’s not a bad focus but you have to keep your perspective in tact, which is seriously questionable in a lot of the pakcs I encounter.

I ended my week with dinner at one of the world’s most famous Yoga instructor’s house.  It was a small dinner with just seven of us.   I didn’t know what to expect.  He’s beyond successful and considers himself a philosopher more than anything else.  He could afford the biggest house in Beverly Hills filled with staff, but instead, I pulled up to quite a modest home with his wife doing all of the delicious cooking.

Aside from crystal chandeliers hanging from literally every conceivable ceiling space (which did make me chuckle), their home was warm and unassuming.  The other guests were the physicist that invented the lazer beam, the head of a medical institution and a famous architect.  Watching this yoga-man in action was astonishing.  He radiates energy – he sleeps 2-3 hours a night, looks 20 years younger than he is and bounces around the room with confidence and smiles in equal measure.

He says that your body is like a computer that you can program it to do anything, thus he doesn’t ever get jet-lag.  I look at him, hiding the endless bags I’ve had to cover under my eyes, and want to believe in his words.  It’s so straightforward;  his hot yoga activates one’s organs, one by one, and helps balance the body to function better.  I ask him how many hours does he practice?  “From sunrise, just three,” he smiles back.  Ahh, the missing key, the reason for his bright eyes.  The difference between us.

In another life I think I was a dedicated yogi because people like him resonate so strongly in me, as if I was once like them.  For now, I’m just happy to sleep past sunrise and work out enough so it doesn’t all hurt so much.

I have a teenager.  He’s wise and wonderful.  I wanted so desperately for him to feel excited and secure about becoming a teenager because this child is a deep thinker.  Husband is away therefore carrying the weight as a single parent wasn’t easy.  So we did what any normal 13 year old would want to do, we all went indoor skydiving!

At Universal City Walk there is an indoor (but outdoor so passer-bys can watch) air tunnel that simulates air pressure at thousands of feet high.  Suited and booted with jumpsuit, goggles, earplugs and helmets, our family went up, up and away.  One by one with instructor in the air vent with you, we took our turns flying, spinning and balancing against a great wind force.  Ridiculously exciting.  Even the five year old flew, and on the second go wanted the instructor to leave the room!  I highly recommend the experience.  It was a great letting-go for all of us; teenage angst through to adult stress.

My teenager (trying to get used to writing that one) decided he didn’t want a party with school friends he still didn’t really know, so instead we filled the table with his cousins and great family friends.  And I tell you something, 16 kids later, we were a party.  In London I would have fully relied on close friends to make sure my son felt special, make up the energy of the missing family.  But here, it’s just so easy to feel the love. There they were, 1o of his 14 cousins, and a few special friends that are almost counsin-like, and the worries of not giving him a class party were washed away with the rain.  Yes, it is currently raining here!!

I’ve also felt the pain of the loss of my father this week.  Probably because my son is 13 and in Judaism that marks the beginning of adulthood, but mostly because of how much my dad would have enjoyed being at the table.  I can almost see his huge smile across the way.  Almost.

I’m also here, in my home town and therefore focusing on me more; my upbringing, my traditions, my side of the family.  I am able to create the Hamm family world so effortlessly in London as it was a new creation, but here I am definitely tied more to a greater sense of belonging and to those rules again, the ones that governed my upbringing and still exist in my original family.

Many tears have flowed this week.  The feelings of anger towards the injustice of why certain people have to die when they do, why luck seems to follow the bad guy rather than the good one, why one child struggles so hard to read when another without learning difficulties doesn’t want to learn.  Perspective is everything.

When my little one asked me a few days ago where Lord was, I thought he was referring to Lord of the Rings.  “NO,” he announced, “not Lord of the Rings, Lord!!  You know, that fat guy with the beard that sits on the tower!!”  “You mean, God?”  “Yeah, he replied, “God, that’s his name.  Where is he????”

He really wanted to know.  Why, I have no idea, but it was essential I answered the question.  “He’s everywhere.  He’s here (I touched his heart), and he’s here, (I touched my heart) and he’s with daddy in London.  He’s everywhere.”  “He’s inside me??” he giggled.  Hey Lord, Lordie Lord, lalalala….” and the singing continued for one happy boy.  I wish sometimes life were that simple; that answers were that fulfilling, and that singing made everything okay.

And then there were four…

Husband left tonight on a flight back to London.  It’s the first installment of our new ‘life plan for the year’ where he goes to London every so often for work.  He left with man-flu, so it wasn’t a great sending off.  I was trying hard to give love and hugs before he went, but I’ve only just felt healthy myself and I kept wincing with that horrible need to stand a foot away and detox everything he touched, the very moment after he touched it.  He’s a germa-phobe so fortunately he understood.  The flip side of that, of course, is more the truth; that I worry about him more than my other four boys put together but man-flu is unbearable!

From the moment he left, I felt that awful distance.  Not so much between us, but the physical distance of our lives in both of these countries.  London and LA are so far away from each other, the plane journey is a significant one and the time difference challenges any relationship, business or personal.  To have a real life in each requires a slightly schizophrenic existence where you’re never completely where you are because there is a part of you that exists fully in the other land, far far away.

Now this isn’t a bad thing and unlike previous moves in my life, I don’t feel like I live in the middle of the Atlantic, instead of one country or the other.  I just feel, secretly and shockingly, more English sometimes than I care to admit to my LA brethren and that makes me a bit of an alien in my own country.  Weird.

We went to the new Soho House here in West Hollywood where London meets LA in the most spectacular way.  On top of a tall building sits the penthouse club with 180 degree panoramic view of the ocean to the San Gabriel mountains, vintage European styled furniture that resembles London lounging spots, a snooker table and a 30′ bar to sit at and pose/chat/drink.  I remember sitting, probably 15 years ago, in the construction site in Soho with bottles of cheap wine and four or five girlfriends as they were building the first Soho House – one of our mates was in charge of the build.  Somehow, all these years later, I’m dining under California olive trees, discussing English politics and the Millaband brothers, quietly acknowledging the merging of my two worlds and thankful I am now able to drink the good stuff.

Everyone always wants to know which place I like better, London or LA?  To me, it’s become a question I can’t answer.  I feel strangely English in my LA reincarnation, not because I have a weird, affected (as they say) accent, but because I understand and can feel the nuances of the English culture as I analyze the American one.  Americans live by a lot more rules and actually seem to enjoy having them.  The ‘do’s and don’ts’ list is huge in every aspect of one’s life; mustn’t park the car that way, mustn’t let the dog off the lead, mustn’t eat that, mustn’t cross that line.

Everyone thinks the Brits are far more proper and concerned with etiquette, but that’s because their ideas come from age-old cultural values, good or bad, and it’s all said with that accent!  Americans will want to buy the book on etiquette, take the class that qualifies you to have that opinion, or, form a consensus on the right thing to do, and they’ll voice it loud and clear.  I love the enthusiasm that being amongst Americans gives me, but at times the rules feel like they are there for breaking.

Take the soccer league here, called AYSO. A parent is not allowed to scream from the sidelines too much. I’m serious.  Husband already had a ref flag him down twice for shouting and that was only game one.  In Kingston where all my boys played and husband was the coach, it was almost expected that the dads, and moms thank you, yelled abuse at their sons to perform.  The coddling came later, the game was fierce, loud and full of expletives.  Not so in sunny California.  Here the rules are what’s fierce and the ref is loud and ready to penalize you. They are unfortunately influenced by the litigious society we live in and I’m told the board of AYSO (American Youth Soccer Organization) had to employ more lawyers last year than ever before due to law suits from parents and players.  Game two, with husband away and not nearly enough sleep, I challenged the ref on a penalty call and nearly got thrown off the field.  Son wildly embarrassed, mother sensationally fulfilled.

My emotions were running high, clearly, and raw this past week because my eldest son was also away.  With just four of us around the table, life seemed small and not as significant.  Strange to wish for more chaos and loud voices.  I’m a taxi service enough already but not having the other mouths to feed, and shut, made me feel terribly unsettled.  Humour always helps and my little one did his trick by the week’s end.

He came home from school elated.  He couldn’t wait to tell me the good news. His teacher gave him a ‘listening card’.  Only him.  A real treat.  “And then,” he says, “if you get two cards you get to have a conversation with just you and the teacher.  If you get three cards, you get to sit outside the classroom and,” he went on without drawing a single breath, “if you get FOUR cards you don’t have to go to school!!”  Priceless.  I guess little one’s a bit of a rule breaker too.

This was the first week I actually felt like we were here.  School and all its paperwork, carpools, packed lunches and new names has all finally settled down into a strange system that doesn’t involve too much anxiety.  There’s still no rhythm to it all,  but I haven’t forgotten a child somewhere in over a week so all is looking good.  Most importantly, husband is walking beside me now which makes me feel normal and safe.

The week started at a political fundraiser cocktail party held at my mom’s, given by both my politically minded brothers.  LA cocktail hour starts at 5, so considering that most moms I know are more than ready for a glass of Pinot by then, you don’t have to feel like an alcoholic for taking your first sip before sundown.

I was amazed, once again, how grass-roots politics truly can be, even in a country this big.  You see it in developing countries, simple connections pieced together and built like a lego tower to power.  But even here, politicians will still go way out of their way for the one on one connection to your money, and therefore your ideas.  One vote does matter and getting involved is empowering – especially when you have the Sheriff of LA County, the Attorney General and former Governors at your home.  The security was impressive!

We left from there to our first ‘Back To School Night’ where we were finally going to hear something about what our boys are to be studying.  Significantly overdressed, we walked into the theater and the first thing I noticed was that there was no alcohol.  In England, every single school function after hours has copious amounts of wine with the Headmistress usually tending bar.  This event had Starbucks.

Sober thoughts led us to the overall feeling that we either found a system for our kids that is so radically different from their suit and tie environment of learning that they are going to soar as circles, rather than the forced boxes they never were anyway, or, (here’s where the husband’s voice takes over) we have jumped into a sea of hippy, high-fiving people where learning actually isn’t essential.  I am inclined to believe that my boys will learn more if they are comfortable in their environment and encouraged with warmth.  Husband still holds on to the memories of being caned and whipped and knuckled…

Having sorted sports for two out of my four, I chose to focus on one of my younger sons, making sure he felt his after school life was also getting attention.  I went over various classes/sports he could take and after a list that was quite impressive, he simply said that he wanted play-dates.  I had to laugh.  Kids are so busy these days, we rush around making sure they are going to be the best that they can possibly be at everything, and yet what is clearly the most important thing for this particular son is having time to make some friends.  Truth be told, scheduling him in to become the next Tiger Woods (without the sex) would be a lot easier than traipsing around LA for play-dates.  The catchment area, unlike London, for these west-side schools is MILES wide.  But play time it shall be.  Who knows, maybe he’ll want a play-date at Beck’s house????

I ended the week in my usual fashion of going to the doctor and discovering a massive infection.  This time it was in the bones inside my mouth and within minutes of arriving for a normal check-up, I was laid up in the surgical chair facing 2 hours of oral surgery, seven stitches and only one half of my mouth looking like I had collagen.  I’ve had a few days of major meds and lots of time to reflect my undying illnesses and here’s where I’m at.  I’m not dying.  If this is my lot right now, these problems that are fixable, than I’m pretty lucky.  Even though I cried in the doctor’s office when presented with the bill because I had to spend the budget for my dining room table on my mouth, I did feel relieved that the pain would go away and I could simply move on, end of saga.

So here’s to the next week without a doctor’s appt, without pain, and hopefully without forgetting to pick up anyone.

Well, not my house exactly, but close.  It was the first day of school for three out of my four boys and anxiety levels were high.  For a start, we all had to wake with a ‘6’ in the hours column, which was a far cry from the summer ‘9’ category.

Husband was finally in town and dutifully in the car with us by 7:30.  We nearly arrived at school when one son announces he forgot his back pack full of his supply list of stationary.  We wanted to scream at him with instant frustration that he is starting off his American school career in the same fashion he ended his English one, but it was the first day of school and one failed move by us would cause a storm.  So, ignoring all instincts to flick him upside the head, husband headed home to save the day.

Meanwhile, I sat on my own watching my two younger boys find their way on this new playground.  They both start at different times, so there is a lot of time to hang out.  All the emotions were whirling around my heart and head at this point; will they make friends, will someone eat lunch with them, will they be okay?

Then the Head of Admissions approached who is completely lovely.  I was busy taking photos when she stopped me and asked if we were all okay.  I said yes, still busy with my camera, and she started to leave.  With her was another new dad and she was taking him to see his son.  Just as they walked away, I managed to turn in time to say my thanks when…there he was, the new dad just standing there, staring at me (or his son behind me)…D B.  D B!  D B goes to my school!!!!!!!! Or his son goes to my sons’ school, whatever!

Speechless, absolutely gobsmacked.  Nothing came out – not a ‘hey’, ‘hi’, ‘what’s up’, nada.  I even failed to do my norm which is to say something hideously awful like ‘my son plays football’ or something cheesy like that.  Now, at this point my little one got kicked off the monkey bars by a bigger kid and was looking rather sad.  I only noticed that because David sat down near him.  I swear, all the maternal heart strings that were being played before got completely abandoned and in its place was a full body experience of total anxiety of how I was going to meet my footballer.

I stared, approached, then backed down.  Too embarrassing.  And yet, I’ve been desperately looking for my English side to shine here, and who better to make me feel connected than this man in front of me??  It’s synchronicity, karma, 6 degrees of separation working to make my life feel like a circle rather than two parallel lines.

Then just like that, my English footballer left.  Bereft of my chance to become soulmates, I sat alone, staring at monkey bars.   Then husband arrived.  Husband looked at me concerned.  “Don’t worry,” he said. “The boys will be fine.  Your face is so red, are you going to cry?”

We then went into a new parent’s meeting – no DB there – and met with all the Heads of school.  This was probably the first time husband has attended one of these things as he was interested in the curriculum here. The man next to us took out a notebook and pen and for the first time I thought this school atmosphere is getting more serious.  But after an hour and a half, seriously, 90 minutes, of talking about carpool, feelings and food allergies, then back to carpool, we started to squirm.  Is anyone going to discuss what they are going to learn?  I realize my boys will feel safe, loved and cuddled, but who is going to whip them when they are late, lazy or out of order? How English have I become???

In London, I cannot remember one time listening to the Head discuss anything other than the curriculum and their expectations of our sons, and adding that to husband’s stories of literally being caned and knuckled by his Head, this seemed like we joined a support group for needy parents and kids.  We finally left, watching the man next to us fill up his page with notes about carpool timings – which I’ll just say now is a military operation regarding where and when you line up your car with your child’s name on a sign in your windshield and they walkie/talkie each other to get your kid delivered to your door!

Needless to say, the next day we failed our course in carpool and forgot it was early dismissal and left one child for an hour in the hands of his teacher.  Cringe-worthy.  Crap parents.  Bad first impression.  We should have taken notes.

It wasn’t a big moment, a huge gesture or a cry out for anything.  In fact, it could have been easily missed.  But today I had the pleasure of ‘the look’, from him to me, that always says it all.  It’s pure love mixed with everything he needs, matching all that I give.

His new teachers arrived to show him around what seems, to him, like a massive school.   And so, as he slowly, gingerly left my side to join the embrace of a stranger, he glanced back at me and gave me the look.  It was filled with a cheeky smile, a heart that was racing (his and mine at this point) and a connection needed to step ahead into the unknown.  Genius.  Something so small and yet so significant that made both of us feel better.

I can’t say this transition has been that hard; we’re surrounded by family and old friends and a house that we love.  But the LA lists are starting to really get to me.  First off, school supplies.  In England, after purchasing a back pack and a few pens, you’re pretty much done.  Here, oh no.  You get the ‘supply list’.  I took everyone and their list and the dog and her list -seriously, had dog tags and bowls to buy, to Staples supply store.  It’s a warehouse filled with everything you’d want for your school or office.  I love these types of stores. Or at least I used to.

Each child had a basket and I took it in turns reading from these endless lists  trying to figure out just what they meant by tabbed folders and fastening binders.  Up and down the aisles, back and forth, grabbing all the wrong stuff and papers falling down all around us.  Finally, an hour and a half later, after blood (son’s paper cut), sweat (clearly mine) and tears (son’s pain as he runs into a filing cabinet) we go to check out only to find that one of my sons left his basket ‘somewhere’ and we had to start all over.  I swear, I nearly nearly had a disco freak out and the dog now wouldn’t stop barking.

$500 later we left for the doctor’s office for the ‘vaccinations list’ to be completed.  Four boys in one office is like watching monkeys in a zoo.  They climb, jump and play with everything in the tiny cubicle called a room.  Thank g-d I’m not a germaphobe because their hands went everywhere.  By the time the nurse enters, I ask for drugs, any drugs.  I get a nasty, curious stare as he begins to weigh and measure my animals.

Shots, shots and more shots later (the NHS in England apparently offers about 1/3 of the vaccinations needed here) I am soon assaulted by the bill.  They don’t take insurance anymore, of course, but I’m told the doctor will offer me a slight discount as I have quite a big family.  I say perhaps I should just get rid of a few to make it cheaper next time.  Again, the nasty curious stare.  Clearly I’m not that funny.

The lists continued that week, with the Emergency Pack List (in the event of an earthquake), the School Going Green List (which translates to you having to print everything off instead of them), and of course the Emergency Contact List.  This list did bring some pleasure to me as I finally could write my mom and sisters numbers down.  No hesitation.

Finally, the ‘Reading Lists’.  We choose to ignore them for two reasons.  Firstly, we just discovered them and getting the books read by next week would mean nothing short of a miracle.  And secondly, I have adapted the summer laid back bug whereby I thoroughly enjoy not pushing, yelling and fighting with my boys to get their work done.  Reading included.  So far, only one of my sons reads for enjoyment of any kind, and frankly I get so sick of the sound and content of my own voice during nine months out of the year that’s it a nice break for all of us.

I found in London the competition was quietly fierce; little Jonny was doing double back flips passed his peers and his mother kept it all under wraps.  Here, little Jonny is being filmed doing his double back flips with a tutor/coach for every activity and his mother has taken an add out at the school newsletter to publicly applaud him of his accomplishments so far.  I get sucked into wanting my kids to be great at something just like the rest but the time needed to dedicate to whatever sport/subject to transform good into great is immense.  Times four.

My boys have individually announced today that they are bored.  And I think, excellent, here’s my chance at an animated speech about boredom.  “To be ‘great’ you must push.  Being good is where I can probably help you, but being great…” My little one takes his sword out at this point and stabs an invisible monster.  “Being great has to come from you…” Now the dog enters and starts humping my other son.  Next son gets the giggles and fourth son just waits, waits for me to say that screens are back on, go play.

It’s still summer.  Go play.

Just a quick note of thanks and appreciation for the amazing illustrations that transform these pages.  Denise has her own website denisedorrance.com and is not only hugely talented, but is a source of inspiration for me.

LA.  Sitting in my bedroom looking out at the palms and the sunshine.  No matter how you slice it, a sunny day is helpful in every way and a heatwave (to us) is icing.  We arrived and fell into the arms of my family, and aside from a 2 1/2 hour wait to see if Scarlet the dog was still alive, all was wonderfully uneventful.  The dog made it, albeit incredibly hot and seemingly constipated, and matza ball soup was had by all, including the dog!

My nieces and nephews made their usual welcome home sign, which is still up, and we all slipped back into our parallel universe with ease.  Well, the kids did anyway.  I, on the other hand, carried my illness across the pond and still couldn’t sleep through the night without the help of codeine.  This time my mom organized a visit to a GP that a) took insurance and b) was a pulmonary specialist.  You can’t medically move in America without insurance and now most doctors don’t accept any.  Insurance companies literally run the business of medicine here.

My mom came with me on the visit.  The last time she did this was 13 years ago when I went to the gynecologist thinking that I had a tumor on my ovary, only to find out that I was pregnant…out of wedlock!!  Oi vey! My inner dialogue during our wait in the office was a mix between, ‘Please G-d, don’t make me pregnant cuz I’ll have to kill my husband,’ and ‘Please don’t let me have a tumor in my lungs’.  Aside from my dramatic flashbacks, I was desperately happy to have my mom next to me, taking over, and making sure I was going to breathe easily again. Amazing how that role play exists no matter how old I get.

The doctor basically agreed with the diagnosis that England’s climate doesn’t suit me but he added another factor; most of his patients living in England have concocted a fungus in their bloodstream that you can be allergic to and can cause asthma and breathing difficulties.  You get it from old heaters/heating systems.  My mother looked at me at this point with victory in her eyes.  Once again, no money was exchanged and professionals were telling her daughter it’s right she moved!   I looked away knowing that I’m a fungus-infected, breathless mess who doesn’t have a lot of fight left in her right now.

We ended the appt. by giving the doctor a box of cakes, as we were an emergency visit during his lunch break, and I must say those cakes went a long way because he’s called to check in twice in the last week for health updates!  Good move, mom.

What I realized, again, is how life just stops when you’re not well.  Being ill is all consuming, you can’t move forward, you can’t tick boxes in your endless lists, you can’t think of anything else other than how you are feeling.  It’s a boring topic but I can’t get past it right now.  I haven’t really reached out to most friends yet because it all feels too much and family are the only ones I feel I can totally bore with the recent color of my phlegm!

It’s over a week on and I am still surrounded by all of our suitcases and every closet and room feels like a project.  With a week’s worth of hindsight on my side, I think the only thing that ever stops me in my shoes, truly, is illness.  So getting sick has kept my pace incredibly slow and has allowed me some space, which I’m often not great at taking, to get used to being here.  I haven’t made the distinction yet that we are not on holiday this time, that we actually moved here.  Maybe that’s why I can’t seem to unpack?

We took a trip for a few days to Yosemite National Park – one of America’s finest displays of mountain ranges overlooking a valley full of sequoia trees, oak and pine trees and beautiful meadows.  It’s a chance to watch your kids play in a river, building forts and making rock formations, for hours on end.  Heaven. But just as I was breathing in the fresh air, I literally ended up choking on it and quickly relapsed into illness.  This time I sunk quite low and depression felt like a natural option.  But then a shift happened.  We got into the car to drive back and I actually felt like I was going home.  Not a vacation home, but MY home.  And that feeling brought with it a lightness and ease, and the easy breathing started to follow.

A move is a really big deal, no matter what.  This move carried a great deal of decisions with it – school, husband’s work, emotional life of everyone, money matters.  And although I thought I was doing great, remaining calm and courageous, my body took the stress and turned it into a great mound of sticky, annoying phlegm and placed it on my chest…quite close to my heart.  This next week is about clearing that out and cleaning up the mess because next week school starts and let me just say, that will be a world unto itself requiring all of me, for all of them.

It’s the day before we go.  I’m feeling almost bereft.  It’s the smell that’s getting me now.  The smelling sense is definitely my strongest – it takes me straight back to a moment in the most acute way.  It rained last night and the morning now has that fresh grassy smell.  Slightly autumnal.

The boys have packed all their back packs.  I tried to pick up their bags and literally couldn’t.  I opened the packs to find an army of soldiers, stuffed animals (not just for the little one, which I loved), a steel money counter, balls, rope, loads more toys, and best of all an amplifier.  If they could have put the tv in there, they would have.  The truth is I’m lucky it’s so straight forward for them right now.  Soon enough, they either won’t want to go, won’t want to leave a girl behind, or can’t go because of school.  So for now, if it’s about which bear to take or lugging a metal safety box with us, I’ll deal.

They have been traveling on that Virgin flight since they were born and they know the drill better than taking the bus outside our door.  The airport scene is always the same: I try unsuccessfully to get us bulk-head seats, we buy baguette sandwiches for the plane, we lose youngest son in WH Smith’s and find him trying to stuff candy down his pockets, I look longingly at various shops and buy nothing and then we board.  Note: husband has managed to NOT travel with us MOST of the time.  Hmm.

The plane journey is now easier as they all can zone out on movies without too much help from me.  Two out of the four boys invariably will get diarrhea and therefore I do spend quite a lot of time in the loo.  I sing my superstitious song, but only on take off, which is embarrassing to the boys as it must be sung out loud, but it’s part of my safety ritual since I was about 5.

The arrival is the best bit, always.  After customs, etc, we walk up this ramp and through these big doors and my entire family is there waiting.  That means 8 cousins, six aunts and uncles, and my mom.  It’s pretty hysterical and very full of love.  Sometimes there’s even signs.  We are that family.  We all go home in various cars and I collapse as my mom starts serving  matza balls from Jerry’s deli – along with enough cold cuts, bagels and salads to feed us for a week.  Nothing like a Jewish mama to sort out a long haul flight.

It all seems exciting, the right thing to be doing.  I just hope that as I walk down my lane tomorrow I’m not kidding myself about how distant I’m going to feel from here, how long it’s going to be.  We’ll arrive and the first week is surreal, the second week I feel like a stranger, and by the third week it’s like I never left.  Whether it’s LA or London, that’s always the way.  This time, though, I’m struggling with wanting to hold onto everything around me here as I feel much more European than I ever thought I would.

My doctor tells me I’m allergic to this place.  That I should live in a dry, mild climate with less pollen change.  That living next to a golf course is about the worst place for my chest to function properly, and this is clearly true as I am too slow in recovering from my second summer infection.  I ask him if he’s spoken to my mother.  He doesn’t get the joke.

For the past 16 years I’ve had a love affair with England and have managed to live between LA and London quite successfully.  And now, I’m told categorically by my Indian NHS doctor who actually doesn’t know my mother, that I need to get out now, while I still can breathe.  That being outside, which is my salvation most days, is not allowed.

What he doesn’t realize is the chord he is striking with his words.  At my home, right now, are 8 large suitcases, a guitar case, tennis bag, computer bag, five backpacks, and the dog’s disgusting sheepskin awaiting our family’s departure in two days time.  Yes, I’m packed that early and no, that’s not a normal occurance.  But this trip signifies another stage in the life of Family Hamm, a move across the pond, back to LA.  The only thing not packed is the husband, who is so deeply rooted in London that he’s planting a tree.   It’s called ‘I didn’t really mean we should move and I really don’t want to go’ tree.

I, we, have four sons, aged from 5 to 12, and a rescue dog from Battersea named Scarlet.  We have managed to raise them to be English American Jewish Protestants pretty harmoniously, and for many years they enjoyed the joys of a 50% Hispanic co-ed state school in Santa Monica, mixed with an all-boy, suit and tie English prep education in Richmond.  Confused?  They don’t think so.  But after a five year all English commitment, we are returning to our ‘other’ existence and hoping (even a little praying is going on) that everything is gonna be alright.

With the countdown so close now, the anxiety is gripping my chest and not going away with a deep breath – or wheezy deep breath – anymore.  Since I have spent the last few months making sure that all the boys and said husband are secure and confidant, I’ve only now just given myself enough space to feel how I’m feeling.  And boy am I feeling freaked out.  Getting quiet enough to really know what’s going on inside of me is not easy; I tend to deflect and care-take others as a basic instinct.  But it’s Sunday night and Sunday nights always make me feel a bit vulnerable, so what better a time to try and get a grasp of my emotions than now, before they spiral into a full blown panic attack and I start unpacking all the bags to make sure it’s all there.

In many ways, changing one’s surroundings, shaking it all up, is great for a family.  Kids live in the moment anyway, but change makes me live there with them.  No matter how hard you try, you simply cannot answer all the questions – how is it going to work?  Are we going to get work?  Is everyone going to be happy?  Is the flight going to kill the dog???  My mom reassured me recently by saying that I was in the driver’s seat of my life and no one was holding a gun to my head – if it doesn’t work, I could… shoot someone, or more simply come back.

The switch isn’t forever and there are huge upsides to understanding both cultures; it’s what I’ve enjoyed most about my dual life.  I had my husband’s family over for a good-bye lunch today.  I asked him what we should cook on this hot, summer’s day, thinking in terms of salads.  He replied, “Whatever we cook, we have to have roast potatoes and gravy with it.”  Of course we have to have gravy.  Silly question.  LA you hide the butter and eat known white meat animals without fat; London you serve up boar’s sausages sizzling proudly on a platter.

In terms of friends, the good-byes are making me nuts.  I know it is harder being the one left and therefore I have guilt with every tearful good-bye.  But I feel sick inside.  I keep praying that nothing is going to change, that we are going to come back at xmas time, and every holiday thereafter for the year, and no one will die and everyone will be the same.  There are a million reasons why we are going, between work, school and being with my family in LA, and yet we are all happy here.  Husband and I look at each other and think ‘and we’re going because…why, again?’  And then, literally, we stand facing each other reciting the reasons again, one by one, trying to convince ourselves we’re doing the right thing, slightly ready to blame the other if the pendulum doesn’t swing in the right direction.

Change brings anxiety, which brings stress, which can make you sick, which then turns to health issues, which then makes you feel much older than you are – or imagine yourself to be – which then makes you depressed.  So…considering that we are about to uproot our entire lives and dive into our parallel universe, I think it’s a good time to listen to my five year old and chill out a bit because ‘America is only 24 minutes away from here’.

Besides…it’s only for a year.