It's Only For A Year

I was asked today how my kids were doing in their second LA school year. My easy answer was that they are all fine, good, busy and happy. And this is true. The complicated more personal answer is that each of them is tackling big issues, whether academic or organizational or friendship shananagins, or even when and how to eat one’s lunch, and all of it fills every single minute of my day.

I received an email from my little one’s teacher. “Jennifer, please please please can you make sure that your son comes into school with a lunch and sufficient snacks as we had to give him the cafeteria’s snacks for the third day in a row.” Appalled, I opened his lunchbox after school and found his uneaten organic roast turkey sandwich and cheese string, sans the chips and other snacks. After some detective work I discovered that my son told a major fib to his teacher claiming his mom didn’t pack any lunch and he was starving (cue tears) knowing he’d get the school snacks instead, namely cookies and chips. “Dear teacher,” I wrote back carefully, “please please please make sure that you check my son’s lunch box next time as he is quite a clever snack seeker…” and fibber.

The first week of school ended. There I was thinking about the novel I was going to write, the class I was going to take and the amazing cooking extravaganzas I would perform to perfection week in and week out with all of my spare time. Instead, I got sick, stressed, tested, texted, emailed and made to feel dumber than a fourth grader. However, there was one thing I knew for absolute certainty; I had no time.

One would think that the weekends would then be a safe haven for everyone to catch up on their sleep, calories (yes, boys actually operate that way and need extra calories so pile it on during the weekends) and have space to chill-axe. But, Saturday morning greets us as it did in London with sport. Only this time, Husband’s referee outfit isn’t his torn up sweat pants and grubby jumper where he screams up and down the pitch like a madman, but a bumblebee outfit, whistle, high black pull up socks and black shorts, all made out of grotesque polyester, compliments of AYSO and he’s being judged by commissioners that come to the pitch with score cards just to fill out on his abilities. I have never seen quite a sight like it! Not sure how long his career as ref is going to last. I now have four games to watch; three sons and one ref. Son number four has to phone a friend until well into the afternoon as there is no fun in watching others play…ever.

We collapse mid way through the afternoon with only thoughts of dinner keeping our focus. Then on to Sunday morning. Now, Husband and I are desperately trying to maintain a routine for them to do their work, especially on the weekends. It breeds some discontent with all of them in different ways. I have one son who is a diligent worker and sits down immediately, but tends to rush. I have one who needs the walls to come crashing down before he realizes it’s actually time to get started; one who thinks work is singing a rap song and putting a dance to it and another who is incredibly sensitive to the way you even look at him whilst he is doing his homework. Forget four different personalities…there are 55 different mood swings to navigate through in the middle of one Sunday afternoon and all of it has me leaving the house with the dog in search of a fresh breath.

I try not to argue with Husband about the tactics involved with getting four boys to focus and swear to him that other families aren’t doing more than us. Don’t we all wish we could be invisible in someone else’s home and watch how they do it?? In London, as LA, New York or frankly any major city anywhere, we are all on similar tredmills doing the best we can. Pre-teen pressure exists more in London as their private school system tests children at 11; LA kids seem to require not only performing a sport at club level, but also get straight A’s, play concert piano, do community service and have someone in their greater family who can potentially write a fat check. I never knew what ‘annual giving’ was until I moved back here and dealt with private schools. Londoners would be appalled, frankly, that week one finds a letter in your post asking for money.

Truth is, Husband pushes as hard as he can until I feel the breaking point and dig my heels in with a maternal roar. Sometimes the roar is louder than I anticipated which can really kick things off, and often times I don’t even know why I am protecting the boys from a bollocking that they most likely deserve, and I should have given myself. But the voice of Dad is forever going to resonate differently than the voice of Mom, and they are lucky to have both. Yes, they are LUCKY we yell at them individually and collectively! That’s gotta be in the parenting 101 book somewhere.

There is nothing more calming for me then the sound of one of my young sons playing with their guys. Army men mixed with Star Wars clones battling it out for the top shelf. I don’t know why, but when life gets overwhelming and spins me upside down, watching them play in their wonderful world of make-believe puts everything straight and right again.

We are back in LA. My mom was stellar once again with matza ball soup and a stocked fridge waiting for us. We weren’t in the house but for ten minutes when Husband received a very frustrating work email and then couldn’t reach the necessary people. Not fair as it translated into no sleep for him, or for me. Why do people do that?? Why send an email to someone on a plane, who is going to land with a head full of jet lag and then not be available? Why not wait until the next morning and let that person sleep? Rant over. But it did taint our arrival.

I suppose that incident is a normal life occurrence and made our return instantly just that; normal. We are here now and life moves on. School is quickly approaching and the emails are coming in fast and furious. Four grades, two schools, room parent meetings, volunteer schedules for the insane things I must have signed up for whilst drunk one evening in the summer, mandatory volunteering for AYSO soccer, tutors, music, tennis, hebrew for son number two, school supplies, schedules, after school sports, and of course play dates and birthday party invitations. Oh me oh my.

I went into Office Depot and couldn’t believe I was buying supplies again. Where did the year go? I’ve been blogging for over a year now and it doesn’t feel like the right representation of time. The beginning of the school year, whether in LA or London, is the same. There are those mothers who, from day one of summer time, have known which class their child is going to be in, which tutor or sport or class they will attend after school, what life is going to look like three months from now and they’ve seriously bought all the supplies for it. And then there are those who rock up the day before the start without any of the print-outs or uniform or notebooks or shots. I am not as bad as the latter, but evidently not far off as I’ve already missed a mandatory school meeting – that I set up! Gone are my mornings to sleep in which represents a huge part of my own personal body clock rhythm; without 8 hours of sleep I’m really not a nice person and who wants to miss the Seinfeld double episode Monday through Friday that ends at 11pm??

We went to a BBQ today where one of the mom’s kids had already gone back to school. She was slightly more uptight and stressed about the work load that awaited them upon their return home. And then there was the rest of us drinking watermelon vodka cocktails. It’s impossible to avoid the school stress on some level and I’m here to say it’s universal. London moms don’t communicate it as much, but perhaps are more silently competitive. LA moms hike and chat and have coffee and chat and do yoga and chat and deal with the stresses more collectively. For me, if it’s not my issue I’m a good listener, if it is my issue I’m a good talker and if I’m totally freaked out about the issue, I run a mile from any chatter.

Thoughts at the beginning of the school year are the same as new year resolutions; I’m going to cook more interesting food for the family; I’m going to be uber organized and keep the kids on schedule, on time; I’m going to work out, eat right, enforce bed times, give more vitamins,read to the boys at night and not scream so much. I will be amazing and wonder how I do it all.

And then, I’m sure, I will wake up the first morning before the alarm, cursing the bags under my eyes and scream ‘breakfast’ so loudly that I lose my voice before school even begins!! I will send them off at carpool only to realize as I pull into my own driveway that one of their important bags has been left in the car. Ooohhh, I cannot wait.

Back in London having gained at least four pounds. As I’m 5’4, that’s saying something. I’ve never eaten so much – when I’m not even hungry – in my life. But what the heck is the point of not trying absolutely everything when one is in the heart of Italy???? I think you can eat and pray and love without leaving your borgo!

Mom is with me so my final days combine a mixed agenda. Boys grasping onto their final play dates and goodbyes, knowing that they’ll be back at xmas but wanting those last connections as well. Youngest son longs for his best mate and their friendship is just that…the best. I’ve never quite seen such a strong relationship so young in boys and as this boy is moving to Cape Town and my son thinks we’re going there next week, lateral thinker he is, I am actually considering the visit!

As for me, I had my own important connection to make before we left. It was to a friend who is dying from an awful and rare disease and therefore living with the knowledge of the imminent countdown. His bravery, and his wife’s undeniable and completely remarkable strength, made Husband and I weep. And love. He has chosen to live in the moment, this moment right now, directly in front of him, and cherish and honor those in his life. If ever there was a lesson about being present and real, this was it. I thank him hugely for the honesty and light he gave us that day and always.

Leaving England is never easy for me. I walk around the house after packing all the clothes wondering what else I will invariably need in LA. I have two sets of every important document for all of us and I travel with random bills with reference numbers that may be useful if something goes wrong with the house. This time we are trying to rent our house for a year so I’m having to walk away knowing that everything might get put into storage and therefore get lost or at best disheveled when we return. I caught my little one upset and lying on his bed. He didn’t want anyone to touch his toys and didn’t want strangers renting our house. He also didn’t want to go back to school as first grade is scary and he missed our dog. His thoughts were introspective and he lay there, looking at the ceiling, waiting for me to make him feel better.

I lay with him for awhile. “No one will touch your things,” I lied. “And it’ll be nice to have people breathing life into our lonely house whilst we are away,” I lied again. “And as for school, first grade is indeed hard, but think about how many things you’ll be able to read once you get the hang of it…like recipes on how to make candy chocolate caramel marshmallow brownies,” (thought I’d throw in every sweet I could think of) I said. He eventually smiled. It’s tough leaving on all of us.

There are two Jennifers living inside of me. One of them is pure-bred Californian; the other a European being. I belong in both places which is why the juggle of that struggle is worth it. What I am reinforcing in my boys I don’t know, other than an appreciation for a greater world and a sense of identity in both cultures. Where will they end up living? For now, I am as present as I possibly can be in my home in Richmond, England with thoughts of LA playing a distant tune.

Time with my mother, on our own, in Italy. Although I am fully capable of back-packing, camping, getting lost in a city and eventually finding my way – perhaps in a parallel universe but capable nonetheless, I am also completely excited to indulge in total luxury and live on Planet Fabulous. My mother and I stayed in Castiglion del Bosco in Tuscany for the past three nights and I tell you, it was superb. The idea was to pack into three nights and two days all that we could and the end result was a sensory explosion. We had three cooking lessons with their chef choosing dishes that we could actually make at home. We stood over him like two eager and slightly clueless cronies watching his every stir of the pot, realizing in the process how many risottos I’ve mercilessly destroyed, and learned the art of simple Tuscan cooking. The secret is in NOT doing too much to the food, btw.

We went on a wine tour and tasting on our first day that set the tone for drinking copious amounts of Brunello for the next three days. Brunello di Montalcino a wise choice on any wine list. We drank it day and night because we frankly were eating day and night and wine just goes with everything. Maybe not breakfast, but it was tempting. The highlight of the stay was tickets to the Palio in Siena. This is an annual horse race from an ancient tradition dating back over a thousand years. Let’s just say, if you are ever in Siena on July 2nd or August 16th, this medieval festival is something you must see. The Piazza del Campo where the race is held is a square in the city’s centre surrounded by buildings from the 13th century. It is stormed by nearly 30,000 people pinned next to one another and choice window boxes from the buildings of the square equally filled with a further 33,000 onlookers. It’s also 80 degrees outside, so the heat of the event begins by the sweat on your brow. The 17 districts, or contrade, of Siena parade their stars and stripes and 10 have been chosen to race the event with jockeys riding dangerously bare back. You belong to the district you were born in, so the race divides family members and lovers alike.

We were late in requesting any ‘seats’ – couldn’t quite picture mom working the crowd in the square – and after some proper Italian fanagling, the hotel produced a last minute result with the offer from Countess Cesarina Pannochieschi d’Elci; essentially the Sienese Royal Palazzo. It was extremely pricey, this ‘favor’, so it required some debate over the pros and cons. We got through all the pros, and booked it! It was an insanely exciting and privileged evening and having the Countess and her family as our hosts, Prosecco in hand and standing at the window box where Prime Ministers and rock stars alike have rested their elbows, we were over the Siena moon.

It’s only for a-nother-year. Yes, the best laid plans get shifted, changed, reworked, and continue to be made to measure. I am quickly approaching the end of our first year, a time when a few great women convinced me to start this blog. And of course, the title came from my mind-set at the time; one year at a time.

But instead of unpacking and getting ready for school here, we are packing once again and heading back to the beach. MIxed feelings invade my head and my heart, but there is an understanding that for now, the choice is clear. The truth is, our options for schools here became too limited and inappropriate for what each of my boys needed. I know this to be true by the visceral reaction I had driving by their old prep school the other day. I pulled up outside and instead of happy memories flooding my mind, it was a bit of guilt coupled with regret for the lack of understanding I had in playing this system. It’s not a bad school, far from it, it was just the wrong school mixed with gross confusion on when and how to move to the next school. They encourage a family to stay to the final year regardless of whether it may not be in the best interest of the student which can be quite shameful. After eight years, I remain unsettled on my, our, choices, but my saving grace will be it was never due to lack of trying.

We have two more days left on our summer time in London and my love affair with this house, this life, my friendships has deepened. As a family, living here just works. I spoke to Husband a few days ago and the chasm between our lives was getting deeper. The boys and I were chilled out and loving being careless whilst he was stressed and lonely. Not good. I was trying not to sound so happy, which is a strange thing to say, as I felt upset for him and he needed to know he was missed. And he was, so he came. Yep, he arrived for our last week here and when we picked him up en-masse at the airport, I have never seen a bigger smile. At the end of the day, we survive a few weeks without each other and then a breaking point is hit, and one of us needs to travel. And although I loved turning off the light at night at my discretion instead of wearing an eye patch, relished in stretching out sideways and having full use of the bed to myself and looked forward to not getting woken up twenty-five times a night by sudden movements…I was much more complete with him by my side.

And…he was now my babysitter!! I have a trip to Tuscany planned where I meet my mom who’s already there and we stay at Castiglion del Bosco – a six star Borgo on the top of a Tuscan hillside, taking part in cooking classes and wine tasting and lots of eating.

Ciao for now.

P.S. Solemn thoughts…
A decade ago my dad died. Ten years. I find it incredibly sorrowful when I think about how much he’s missed. The marriage of one of his daughters, the birth of five more grandchildren, two bar mitzvahs so far, the world developing with social media connecting us internationally. He would have loved to Skype his cousins in Toronto! When I think of my dad, I almost have to elevate my game as he was a great intellectual, a word merchant, and he would read this blog looking for insight and lack of verbiage. Lord knows I’m forever making up words as I write, challenging the computer’s scribbly lines underneath, but I hope he would have enjoyed the tone and had pleasure in the thoughts.

Walberswick, Suffolk. Not an easy village name to roll off one’s tongue. Our dear friends have a house, or two, there and we have been visiting this special spot by the sea for ten years. The week was spent either crabbing, swimming, playing 40/40 It with their chickens running the game or on their speed boat knee boarding, doughnut-ing and rocketing down the river. Collectively we have 8 kids and as each one had their go, Clare and I kept looking at each other wondering who was going to say between us ‘my turn’ first. “I’m a really good water skier,” I announced about every five minutes to impress the kids. “I can do this…and that…on one ski…I was really good!” Pathetically wimpy, are what my comments were, because after watching the kids for over an hour sit on their knees and get bounced from here to eternity, all I could think about was my potential back surgery and there was no way I was having a go. Clare is quite capable of jumping in on a whim so I was silently grateful she decided to keep her jumper on.

We also spent time in West Wittering, an hour and a half from London on the south coast. It has the beach life of Santa Monica on a much smaller scale, and the true dedication from families to enjoy the sea regardless of the whipping winds and ominous clouds. I’m afraid Californians are far more fickle and if we sniff rain, forget it. Here, rain/shmain. They put up their wind guards like a fortress, strip down to their swimmies and no one bothers with suncream. They’ve come for a day at the beach and dammit, they’re going to have it.

We did get some gorgeous weather as well, it must be said. The English claim that they never talk about the weather in the summer, if a bbq is planned then a bbq you will have, even if it’s wet. What else were umbrellas made for? But I do find more and more people talking about, well, the weather! It’s like this game of roulette that gets played every summer’s day as plans are made and marquees go up and down. Currently I have a friend coming for a walk in Richmond Park and the forecast is for sunshine with rain.

And we got drenched. No worries. However, the most exciting event of the day was the realization that the indoor pool down our lane is now open as kids laughter and screams can be heard from three doors down. The pool belongs to a private home that gets rented out a lot and my boys have swam there before, thus the knowledge of what the buzzing noise is from behind the big wall. The tricky part of getting invited this time is this…Brad and Angelina and Co are the occupants! We noticed the paparazzi down the lane camping out and didn’t think much of it until day three, and they were still there on their motorbikes and cars round the clock. Very annoying, very intrusive, not a nice bunch. What a horrible part of living famously.

My boys didn’t know who B and A were, shocking but true, and merely wanted to have access to the pool next door. So, with ball in hand, they did a ‘ding dong’ and asked if their kids wanted to play. A very dishy male nanny took my number – given by my six year old so lord knows if it’s right – and said Brad will be calling today or they will just stop by and collect my boys for a swim. And now, they all think that the phone is going to ring and their trunks and towels need to be ready. They have no understanding of why I don’t believe the phone will ring, why Brad isn’t going to say ‘Hey Jen, wanna swim with the kids??” And I have no desire to run through the rules of Hollywood and what distances people from being able to live normally and make friends with the neighbors. After all, that’s the part of being a kid I love – they don’t see the differences yet…even with the last name Pitt.

Week two, London.

The thing about week two is that I get to finally live here rather than just be visiting. Meaning…life settles into a routine that allows for a natural rhythm to happen. We left a full life in LA and arrived to an even fuller one here. Friends, neighbors, the lane we live on – the space is ours.

It isn’t a second home the way people visit a part-time house they own. It is a second life, and I’m watching my boys do it this way round for the first time, in this way – LA to London – and see how our lateral thinking can work. They too do not look at choosing one existence over the other, and even their accents shift unconsciously back and forth. “Which do you prefer?” asks a mom to my little son. “New York,” he answers. Funnily enough, his absurd response reflects how we all don’t ever choose, even from a city they’ve never been!

Friends here who stay in London for the summer almost seem to have to excuse that decision. Maybe it’s because they’re used to chasing guaranteed sunshine or perhaps it’s just that people here travel much more than they do in LA. Seeing friends during these months is like catching people mid-sentence between “I’m off to…and back from…”. But London in the summer is also spectacular; aside from the incredibly cool music festivals (I don’t go but I know people that do therefore making me feel cool by association), there are outdoor concerts, pop-up restaurants and the usual exhibitions and theatre that can keep any resident or visitor happy.

Spent the night in the city. These streets I walk past hold such memories for me. Nearly 20 years of who I am, what I was thinking, what I am thinking… We started at the Ice Bar – literally a bar made of ice – where sister-in-law Boo, Livi and I nearly froze to death. We only made it through 15 minutes of our 40 minute allotted time period (Uggs instead of strapy sandals would have helped) and took off our ridiculous Eskimo jackets they gave us and traded them for an outside bar and tapas. Any sniff of sunshine and everyone is out on the streets, drinking and eating. I always find it amusing how many restaurants have outside seating – more than LA, seriously, and people will stay out there till they’re blue if it’s summer time. It was a stupid idea really to go ice in the summer.

Last weekend we all missed Husband very much. And on Sunday I really felt for him because most people I know are with their families. However close you are with friends, Sundays are that bit more private and I spent the day happily on my own in a sunny garden with the sound of my boys surrounding me, whereas Husband woke up to the dog. We did Skype, however, yes, with the dog as well, and after a few barks we were back in each other’s cyber arms, albeit hairy for him with dog in the middle.

It was our 14th wedding anniversary so we were extra keen to connect. He sent me gorgeous flowers – I think my middle boys had a hand in reminding him – and I sent him what he would really want for his weekend…fresh New York bagels with whipped cream cheese. Romantic? Well I say yes. What other guilty pleasures can I send? Don’t answer that.

London.

We arrived safely with the usual dazed feeling from lack of sleep, but so excited to step back into our lives here. We were only just taking our belongings out of the car when my son announced that his backpack wasn’t there. It was only then that I really started to clock what kids actually put into their backpacks when traveling; it’s not Winnie the Pooh and coloring books anymore, but rather all of their electronic worldly possessions worth silly money and probably data that is not downloaded or stored anywhere else. When I travel with them, I constantly check my own computer bag is being looked after, and my personal bag with passports and wallet, but never do I properly focus on their packs. Stupidly obvious lesson you only need to learn once.

The next day and a half is spent completely jet-lagged and on the phone with the Heathrow police, the insurance company and the taxi service as whoever stole the pack is now using all of my accounts and charging books and music with a single touch of the button. Not sure how I let the Ipod and Kindle even have these capabilities…another blinding lesson. We still haven’t figured out when the pack was taken but now I am having to let it go before the anger swalllows me up. Apparently CCTV proves that the bag was on the trolley as we all remembered so at least I’m didn’t lose my brain along with the belongings.

Two days later and jet lag has nearly killed me this time. Not a great start. I feel very strange still and desperately awaiting the calm that normally envelopes me in this house. Husband not being here creates a further pause, but I try to remember our golden rule: NEVER judge ANYTHING within 48 hours of arrival. The boys jumped in, however, sailing into their lives here like captains on familiar seas. That is a joy and a half to see for sure. I haven’t planned much these first few weeks as summer allows for lazier days. The weather is crap but the boys don’t seem to notice.

I had my first ‘are you moving to LA permanently, then?’ question and every time I’m asked something like this I am flabbergasted as to why people must think in these terms? To me, a permanent decision doesn’t exist, isn’t real or worthy of contemplating, and it forever makes me feel only one emotion; loss. To be permanently somewhere means the loss of the other to me. We permanently live in two countries…for now.

As the weather changes all of our ideas for this week, I slow the days right down and the boys are happy just being home playing ping pong. I do offer a trip into town as now, being in London, I feel the need to see Trafalgar Square, the Changing of the Guard, see a play in the Westend, something quintessentially British. But simply being able to use public transport and let the three older boys take the bus into Richmond is a big enough adventure for them. They have no desire to watch Big Ben gong or go down Portobello Rd, and I realize that I have to get my fix without them for the time being – must stop using Pimms as my tourist attraction! That sense of independence is so hard to find in LA where everyone carts their kids everywhere – I truly feel like a cart horse – so I’m lucky to have them feel so fulfilled with a bit of table tennis.

We spent last night at Sophie’s and with her huge tribe and mine, a game of ‘Cannonball’- something like Tag-meets-It with a jail involved – was played until darkness descended on them, mud enveloped them and they came in red faced and hungry. The adults drank Sophie’s latest summer cocktail concoction and I’d say a seriously good time was had by all.

You know you’re on holiday when asked what day of the week it is and the answer couldn’t come even for large sums of money. Today is Friday. I know this because I asked Dell, the local surf instructor. “Relaxing, huh Jennifer?” he replied. It took even him a few beats to get to Friday. Island life.

We’re in Kauai. Coming from LA it is very rare to not have visited the Hawaiian islands before. Only five hours away, this Pacific paradise is almost obscenely gorgeous. We are renting a house on the north shore that I could easily live in for the rest of my life. I have never spent time in a home that was more us – the spacial layout, the flow, the energy. My favourite moment of the trip was pulling up in the driveway and the excitement in realizing that this house was ours.

Second favourite moment is waking up. Planning where to have my morning coffee – on the lawn, on the beach, sitting under the huge mango tree? Truly the toughest decision of the day, love that. I sit silently outside while most of my boys still slumber. The lack of chaos and noise and phone calls/emails makes so much space for, nothingness. The art of nothing: thinking of nothing, doing nothing, saying nothing; it’s a state of mind to attempt to achieve for sure. This island is graceful in its beauty and serenity as it washes over you slowly and purposefully, with a balmy embracing breeze. Ahhhh is all I can say.

We rented paddle boards and by day two, the boys are having proper paddle board wars on the water. Everything in their lives ends up becoming elements of a game and there’s usually a battle of some kind to win. Here, it’s who can knock the others off the board first, which later turns into racing to the end of the reef on your knees; paddling backwards to the rock and back; flipping over these 11′ boards and seeing if you can flip it back without drowning! Lucky I can report all survived.

Everyone I meet who lives here seems to have the same story. “When did you move here?” I ask. “Well, I came here for six months and that was 22 years ago – or I came here for three months 10 years ago…” They have qualified and exemplified the idea behind It’s Only For A Year. Plans are made, and then re-made. Life is steady, and then turns sharply. I’m not so alone in this. I found my people, in Kauai!!

I managed to read two whole books in one week which makes me feel part of the adult race again. Pure pleasure, this trip is. We ended with two nights in what is called a fabulous family resort. For myself and Husband, this translated to Paradise Found for the kids, and Paradise Lost for us. We were surrounded by hundreds of people on their family holiday shouting to little Jonny to put more sunscreen on and that lunch is ready. I was so bothered by one woman in particular who was on her mobile phone bitching about the rest of her family whilst screaming at her kids to have fun, that I spent at least an hour plotting what I was going to do to her. But then, must admit, I yelled for my kids continuously – if I could find them – and immersed myself into resort living, charging everything to the room.

My little one came back from the pool with a new ball. I asked him where he got it and he said he went into the shop and said, “Hamm” and that apparently gets you anything you want!! We did avoid the pricey drinks, however, because we had bought (from the Costco on the island, of all places) our own alcohol. Not wanting to waste it, G-d forbid, we took it to the hotel and I have to admit, as I clanked my way down to my lounge chair by the sea, I did think about how this may look. No addiction here, I swear.

Home now and packing once again. England tomorrow. Trying to figure out suitcases as boys play the funniest game with Scarlet the dog. Hide and Seek. The boys all hide upstairs and then scream, “Ready!” I open the locked door to the outside and Scarlet races in to find them. First one found loses the game and they start all over. This game has been going on for close to an hour. Each time she races in, she goes to the same spots downstairs and then jumps the steps two at a time to find them upstairs. Hilarious!! She literally goes room by room.

Slightly feeling panicky. Knowing that this time home to England will represent a year. I miss my incredible and forgiving friends – they don’t allow the distance to be anything other than that. It defines so much of me – girlfriends can do that. My father-in-law isn’t well again and this trip is great timing to be supportive to him. Never sorry for being there, of service in a way. It’ll be interesting to see if the boys’ accents will shift again and be more English and if their personalities become something else there. Eldest one has definitely clocked that the girls here find the accent very cool and little one ends up sounding South African like his best mate there. The middle two go in and out and me, well, pronounce those ‘t’s’ and it represents the 17 years of my life where I became part-English.

Raising four boys in two countries. These moments are the test, and hopefully testament, of how well it works.

My 20 year old, English niece has been living with us since the Bar Mitzvah and just went home tonight. Having her female energy invade this all-boy household was seriously divine. She is not only gorgeous but everything you would want a young woman to be: happy, spirited, caring and positive. Her giggles are infectious and I now know every detail about every single one of her best best friends – and there are a few – as I was living side by side with every BBM update.

Last night we watched a movie and she was covered in my boys -they couldn’t sit close enough and little one actually slept in her bed. One of my sons pleaded with her not to go as ‘now mom is going to want to talk to us too much again!’ I laughed so hard at the truth behind the difference between boys and girls, women and men; we girls love to analyze and find the meat and potatoes out of the situation and those boys, well, they just like to eat meat.

I have booked our tickets back to London and have started booking play dates over there for the summer. The unforgiving irony in all of it is that Husband needs to be here all summer. Of course he does!! Isn’t it painfully reassuring to know that he was able to translate his working life to LA which would keep him here, whilst we go there! He wanted to know why, in fact, do we need to travel back for the summer when most of that time we will be apart, again? It’s a tricky one because although I can deal well on my own with the boys – because I’m the one who gets to be with the boys – I need him more and more for my own zen rhythm.

However, this life we all lead was fought for properly; compromises were made, financial commitments that can be painful at times in order to keep two lives operating fully, two sets of friends that define our happiness, two families that make life blessed. So therefore, says the wife whole-heartedly, time is needed for both. Amazing how I am the one holding forth on time needed in London to Husband who used to pine for Blighty. That is a good thing, a godsend. A reality check that he too can be happy and fulfilled in both places.

I tell people here that we are going back to London and they say ‘Oh how wonderful.’ Then I tell them that we’ll be gone for six weeks and the looks on their faces is confusion mixed with awe. ‘Wow, six weeks, that is sooooo long.’ In America people never ever go away that long. In Europe, it’s not only the privileged few that decide to take a villa, or whatever, for the whole month of August. It’s a different mentality especially when summer means escaping to reliable sunshine. That and the fact that in America you getbtwo weeks paid holiday and in England it’s a minimum of four.

It’s my first summer solstice here in such a long time. In LA June gloom settles into the weather patterns so the summer season is not so pronounced. In London, it’s either very wet or very hot but summer is met with a million and one flowers popping up from strange places in your garden and, of course, the sound of tennis balls on hard, green grass…Wimbledon.

I remember realizing a few years back that I could actually watch Wimbledon from lunchtime everyday, not just the highlights on the evening news. As a tennis player, I’ve admired this tournament and event more than any other. The tradition, the pomp and ceremony, the sense of occasion; it’s convincingly the best. Nothing globally comes close to its elegance and you only have to look at Federer’s white suit that he rips off before warm ups to prove the point.

So, London’s summer begins with Ascot and Wimbledon and LA’s summer begins with the big, hot movie block busters! Don’t knock it, my boys couldn’t be more thrilled.