It's Only For A Year

Yesterday I spent the best part of two hours feeling like a twelve year old.  Not because of some great surge of energy, or outlook or innocence, and certainly not because of botox (not yet anyway), but because I had lunch with my mother and it was as if I stepped back into a different incarnation of myself.  I had to remember several times that I’m a grown woman, with four children.  My mother, I believe, didn’t have a clue as to how I was morphing into a pre-teen right in front of her.  She was discussing seemingly unimportant details of our family’s life and history and my heart began to race.  How in the heck did this chord strike so deeply again?  It was an old story she was telling and yet I was living it as if for the second time, not long after the first.

She did notice, however,  the rash on my face and neck.  ‘Oh dear, what’s that?’  I had broken out and literally began to sweat.  ‘I got bitten, I think,’ and put the rash debate to bed.  You see, when you come from a close family with loving parents it is somewhat easy to justify mistakes that were made, things that were said, and try and move forward with acceptance.  I had a ridiculously storybook childhood and often feel like the character in one of Husband’s films where his middle-class, loving upbringing brought him no real angst or madness to draw upon, or rebel from, creatively speaking.  It’s hard to remain angry about a particular event that didn’t go my way knowing how much I was loved and cared for.  Especially now, being a mom myself and realizing the endless energy that goes into just trying to live each day successfully with one’s children.

So I kept my mouth shut, itched a bit more than normal that day, and moved on.  And I did so because of the huge upside that living in LA brings me in terms of support.  My eldest son has joined The School of Rock.  This organization inspired the Jack Black film and is essentially an environment for kids to rock out, get real with their music, create what they want from their music and then perform live at a paid gig.  Eldest son enrolled late in their rehearsal schedule and went from wanting to play guitar to performing lead vocals on half the songs in the set!

Having no idea if he could sing, I asked my family to come and support the gig.  I thought that seeing the family in the audience would at least make him feel good.  That translated to a  reservation for 25 and literally everyone showed.  We were seriously a fourth of the audience and my mom and siblings, nieces and nephews, hooted and hollered and cheered for two hours.  I also put it out there to some friends, who equally showed with huge bells on, and together we were all going to rock out regardless.

Sound-check.  They played a few chords and my son sang out a few bars of his first tune.  I was so nervous I burst into tears.  Right there, at the table, with a video camera, digital camera and IPhone camera all on standby, I started crying.  Then I looked across at cool Husband watching our son and saw that he was crying too!  For goodness sake, the way these moments grip our hearts.

I’m happy to report that all his guitar lessons paid off and he can indeed sing!  My sister found this particularly funny – as kids we would tap when we had ballet lessons, play guitar after our piano lessons, speak Spanish to our Hebrew tutor, and on it went.  After the show at Rusty’s Surf Ranch on Santa Monica Pier we all went home as it was late for a Sunday night.  My boys were filled with adrenaline so we did what any after-party occasion calls for and had cereal and bedtime stories.  Very rock and roll.

It’s lunchtime and I still haven’t showered from my morning run with Scarlet.  Typical really.  My life right now seems to be consumed by the boys’ new schedule.  Basketball, tennis, music, more basketball, play-dates, karate, soccer… I am a firm believer in not over-scheduling, but one or two activities times four boys and I’m a taxi service who should also take stock out in the local Trader Joe’s market as I’m there every single day as well.

Last weekend was the worst.  We all have jet-lag which translates into early mornings, very early, and early evenings.  Sunrise-sunset kind of thing.  Like farmers.  I’d probably like being a farmer.  Anyway…I think I had one schlep too many because I started the fatal discussion in my head that never ends well; What happened to my life??  What am I doing all day that awakens my mind, my soul??  Who am I becoming aside from a competent mother??  Is that enough?

And then to make matters worse, the dreaded memory overload happened shortly thereafter.  Standing on a field shouting for my son to score a goal, I get a call from another mom.  She tells me she is waiting at the park for me.  I tell her she has the wrong number.  She then insists I was suppose to pick up my son at the park.  I tell her that I am at the park, watching the game – she’s got the wrong mother.  She then puts my son on the phone.

I totally forgot that one of my other son’s needed collecting from another park.  Mortified I squeak out a thank you as she offers to bring him home knowing she thinks I’m a bit of a whack job.  We then race back to find my sweet nanny cooking dinner.  Right.  Back to order.  Get books out.  Say sorry to forgotten son.  Then third son comes inside wearing his basketball uniform.  I cast my eyes quickly upon him and sweetly think how little he looks in such a huge uniform.  Uniform??  Basketball?? What time is it???  The clock reads 30 minutes late to his practice – a practice he’s been clearly waiting for all day.  Shit.  Forgot.  Nanny leaves with him.  I finish cooking.  Deep breath.  Back to calm.   Books, spaghetti.  I scream for the boys to come to dinner.  Two show up at the counter.  I continue screaming for the little one.  No reply.  I look outside.  Nothing.  I go upstairs.  In the bathrooms.  He’s not there.  No one has seen him.

I run downstairs and see the front door is open.  It’s now dark outside.  “Where’s your little brother?!” I scream.  Then a car pulls up and honks.   I can’t see who’s inside.  Could my little boy have gotten lost??  Who are these people honking??  Out pops a mom.  I sort-of recognize her.  “Hi Jennifer.  Your little one is so cute.  We’ve had the best time.  He’s had ice cream, I hope that’s okay…” And that’s all I heard.  My fourth son gets out of the car with chocolate smeared all over his face, happy as happy and we say our goodbyes to a mom I barely recognize and walk inside.

I shut the door and not know if I should laugh or cry.  A play-date?  Then I smell the burning.  The pasta!!  Seriously – is this seriously happening in one day?  So much for competent mother.  I’m so blaming this on jet-lag.

It’s now nearly the end of our first school week back with this crazy schedule and Husband returns this weekend.  Life gets even more insane when he’s around, not in a bad way of course, but in a fifth son sort of way.  His energy and chaos and busy-ness makes for a mad household.  I obviously thrive on it otherwise I would have had a nervous breakdown some time ago, but I do fret when the memory goes.  It’s a warning sign to start writing everything down, take on a bit less and breathe a bit more.  Or there’s always alcohol!

By the way, the ‘transition’ back to LA was more like a moment of pause, almost in passing.  I realized that I didn’t have to set up our lives here, start from scratch again and find our way.  It was ready for us, just like how London embraced us over the holidays.  My family still picked us up from the airport and my mom still bought a ludicrous amount of welcome-back-matzaball soup from Jerry’s, but within 48 hours, we were home.

London.  One week in.

We’re here.  Wow.  It’s been quite the week.  First things first, the boys were amazing on the flight and we avoided the horrid closing of Heathrow airport due to a snow storm by just 24 hours.  It’s one of those serendipitous occasions of choosing the right flight on the right date.  We missed our dear friends from LA who tried endlessly to figure out a way to land here, but to no avail.  So disheartening.  But for us, we landed and from the car ride home, it was as if our lives here were only briefly interrupted by a few days abroad; somehow arriving in the middle of a story.

Day one and a dinner was had in our honor with loads of friends – a perfect beginning.  Day 2, jet lag overtook all of us and we only managed three hours of actual daylight.  Day 3 was a  Sunday lunch at ours for 30 with family friends – in London that means our friends with their children, not friends of my family.  The snow was so bad that we nearly couldn’t get up our hill to pick up the food, which would have been a disaster as my true cooking skills would have been revealed in a most stressful way.  I hate driving on ice – bad experiences of days gone by with my brother that still haunt – but after a massive scream fest with no one in particular, I released my nerves and realized that getting to the deli was more important than dying.  Eyes nearly closed and heart screaming, we conquered the drive, and my secret of how I make such a delicious beef stew remains.

Our house.  I truly love our house here but it has lots of little annoying bits to sort out.  It’s a huge luxury to have two homes, but the reality is, it’s not a holiday when you stay in them as there is always something to fix or sort.  I have vowed to take a DIY course in the new year as I seem to be the plumber/electrician/carpenter around here anyway;  literally as I sit here I can hear the toilet running beyond its cycle and it’s only a matter of minutes before I’m called into action!  We would normally leave these problems till ‘the next time’ as it’s a holiday week, but we’re thinking of renting so suddenly the clock is loudly ticking and the boiler takes the main stage.

Inevitably, a pace mixed with adrenaline, endorphins and jet lag kills and I found my heart racing each time my head hit the pillow…so far never earlier than 2 in the morning.  So many thoughts swirling around.  I can’t believe I’m in this bed, here in this life when last week I was shopping at my local Trader Joe’s with my Peet’s coffee.  I went for a run in the snow in Richmond Deer Park and it strangely has the same consistency as the sand does on Santa Monica beach.   I can get lost in the natural beauty of both landscapes as the spell-binding snowy park with its green parakeets meets the rippled waves with dolphins dancing in an endless coastline in my mind.

The build up to Christmas is so much fun, but equally involves life having to come to some sort of equilibrium, in order to actually stand still harmoniously for a few days or so.  The wish is to have a balance in one’s life and to categorize the year’s end into what’s worked and what fell short.  New Year’s resolutions are waiting to be made, but they’ll have to wait a bit longer as the Christmas three day extravaganza stands before us at my sister-in-law’s.   Thank God she is so excited to have us here she decided to do the whole lot!

Day 7 was marked by little one’s 6th birthday.  We all traipsed over to Hyde Park to experience Winter Wonderland.  I was expecting a small fun fair with a few xmas lights, rides and stalls.  What we found was an enormous display of major rides – big enough to get sick on – tons of roller coasters, exploding lights, talking trees, candy stalls from the imagination of the likes of the Wonka factory and more and more and more.

True to an English winter, it was absolutely freezing.  Gorgeous though, and even though Husband nearly threw up after the twister ride, fun was had by all.  6 year old is still playing strong now, like a Viking – a noun my friend Sophie used recently to describe him and it fits quite well.

I’m constantly asked how the boys are adapting, if they’re happy to be back.  And quite honestly, it’s a question we as a family never ask each other.  Being in London is part of who we are and so the questions instantly involve ‘are you hungry?’, ‘cereal anyone?’, ‘what’s for dinner?’, and ‘what are we doing today?’.  Having the kids ride this wave of a lifestyle the way Husband and I do makes it all normal.  I’ve worked so hard over the years, getting it wrong, getting it right, moving here and then there, that to have it all exist simultaneously with such smiles is incredibly fulfilling.

Week 2, Christmas and beyond

Like most of these trips, life becomes a whirlwind where I can only focus on what is in front of me and there’s not a lot of room for analysis.  Which is fantastic.  I live by the feeling of that day and these holiday weeks are an oasis of time for us as a family to simply ‘be’ without the crazy schedule.

Boozy’s house – Husband’s sister – with all the trimmings.  I have the most gorgeous niece, Livi, and nephew, Ben, in the world and with Husband’s brother in from New York…barely…and my FIL (father in law), it was a complete table for the Hamm’s.  The snow still enveloped the landscape around so it was sledding most days with meals on either side.  Christmas is actually a very funny holiday for me as I didn’t grow up celebrating it.  My first tree nearly threw my father over the edge, and my second did the same to my mother.

It’s not their fault, really.  I decorate xmas trees in the most kitch and elaborate way, holding back nothing.  I nearly believe in Santa and know the words to every jingle bells song ever written.  So, to finally get to put up the lights that represent Rudolph more than the sacred Baby himself, is ridiculously exciting to me and I get as consumed as the boys.

A London Christmas is log fires, gallons of wine, traditional television programs, Radio 4, turkey without cranberry, crackers that you pull with the paper crown inside that has to be worn throughout the meal, a drama or two in real life, cheese, more food, Charades, presents, more wine, sausages and bacon, soda bread and whiskey, all in no particular order.  It is a time for my greater Hamm family to remember everything about Nana – Husband’s mom – laugh a lot and sometimes cry in equal measure.  We hold onto the same menu for the big meal as if cooking Nana’s stuffing brings her closer to us.  And it’s worth it, because it does.

Week 3 – Down time before the New Year

I feel at home here.  No more and no less than I do in LA, but I have realized that I have most definitely created another homestead.  It is so strange and wonderful to be back and week three brings with it what my mother always professed; a sense of being settled.  It’s so true and by week three, I do feel totally immersed.  This time, however, the suitcases never quite made it back into the cupboard as if to remind myself that I’m here to soak it up, not settle back in.

The week between Christmas and New Year is the only week in the year that Husband fully relaxes.   The movie industry is totally shut down and so it almost forces him to let go, stop checking emails and simply hang out.  We eat and drink far too much, but the LA regime in us remains as the workouts still infuse our days with energy.  I love making one of the boys go on a run with me.  I think, at first, they are impressed that I’m kitted out and rearing to go in such cold weather (go mom!), until they soon pass me by on the path and wonder why it’s taking me ages to catch up.  One son had the nerve to ask the other day if I fell because I took so long!  Little focker!!

The sun hovers at a very low angle all throughout the winter here, so daylight hours are short.  It starts to get dark at 3:30 so our attempts to do anything during the day result in one main activity before hunkering down in front of the fire once more.  I can tell my boys have been a bit bored but I know that there’s a chance that boredom can translate into creativity for them.  So I let them be bored and I let them stay up way too late and wake at near lunchtime.  I allow myself to sleep in and Husband to switch off.  And although we didn’t do much this week, no one looks wrecked anymore.

Until New Year’s day, that is.  We partied as a family till 3:30 in the morning and boy do we look exhausted.  All that rest and relaxation gone in one night of dancing on the table tops.  Well, not quite the tops of tables, but glass was broken is all I’ll say!  Auld Lang Syne (yes, it is spelled that way) was sung with a roar at midnight, hands crossed over, all standing in a circle.  No one knows the words, no one ever does, but we always sing it nonetheless.

The one consistent activity I have engaged with this week is the making of a video for my eldest son’s Bar Mitzvah.  I’ve never made a proper video but I had an idea and I needed some footage from here.  I filmed my FIL today.  He arrived dressed up and rehearsed and it was beautiful.  He hasn’t been well and therefore won’t be able to make the journey over.  Half way through the filming I had that awful foreboding feeling like I was videoing him for posterity sake.  Partly because he was talking of our family’s heritage and partly because of the reality that he won’t live forever.  What truly ties us here, and there, is that.  Family.  Not wanting either family to radically change in any way.  Not wanting to miss important events, however wonderful or difficult, and not wanting anyone to die.

And then we wake up to find that Husband’s dear dear friend passed away last night.  He was the actor Pete Postlethwait and he was a lovely, warm man.  Strange how you just know when that phone goes a bit too early in the morning something’s not right.  Husband then spent the day writing articles for the papers, being proactive in making sure all of his friend’s talents and attributes are properly represented and gathering his strength to be filmed by tonight’s news team.  The loss, like any loss that grips one’s heart, is deep and hugely meaningful.  You can rarely ‘be there’ when someone dies.  We destroy ourselves for not having the final final; yet goodbye’s are not natural and they are not often necessary.  Expressions of love are vital, but those hopefully happen over a life time of a relationship.  However, I understand his desire to have wanted to be standing nearby and not at the end of a phone miles away.  Thank goodness we were at least in the right country at the right time.

That is the hard part of leaving.  Along with the emotions of stepping slightly away from friends and a landscape that has brought me so much, leaving again with the desire that nothing around me changes feels like a prayer more than a wish.  I have certain pangs for things, again smells and visuals.  But I have learned this trip that my life here is very much alive and kicking, even when I leave it for a while.  It’s a natural time to depart as everyone around me shifts into a different gear and leaves the holiday rhythm behind.  What is normal for me right now is to step into basketball season instead of rugby and return to some greatly needed sunshine.

Up up and away.

I dropped my son off at school this morning.  He was greeted by his headmistress with an enormous hug.  This happens every morning and I can’t think of a better gift to give this particular son than that kind of care.  It took a while to adjust to all of my boys calling their teachers by their first names, and although I still wouldn’t choose it, I can see the connection it enables, rather than the distance they’ve always felt, towards their teachers.

We all went to the Christmas Carol service at one of our schools last night.  I had to laugh when I read the program.  I had been to so many Christmas services in London where the Nativity play was performed followed by a few Hallelujahs.  In LA it’s quite different.  Every grade had their two songs to shine about Santa, Rudolph and the real heroes of Xmas, and half is done in Spanish.

I sat with three of my boys – practically on top of me – watching my other son on stage sing Jingle Bell Rock, and I experienced one of those mother’s moment of pure love.  All is right in the world in those moments.  Everything in my life works, everything is fulfilled.  I wrapped each of them around me, we were all smiling.  It’s a simple beat in a complex story where nothing remarkable happens and yet there’s magic.

We got home and started packing.  True to form, they all were stuffing their backpacks with their worldly possessions until I reminded them we were only going for three weeks and they have loads of toys in London.  We haven’t done it this way round in five years – living here and visiting London – and it’s very odd.  Usually we when we visit LA my life is totally immersed in seeing my family that I rarely interface with my ‘life’ there.  This way round, an entire world awaits.

There is a part of me that wonders how stepping into that life is going to feel; I know I’ll love it, but how much will feel changed and strange and equally, will we all want to come back?  There is an enormous ocean that divides my two lives and the ‘shuttle bus’ we take between the two has often left me dissolved into it, somewhere over Greenland.  It hasn’t happened in a while, but the possibility is always there – the disconnect of my two lives not working simultaneously in reality, the way I think they are in my mind.

I pack boots for the cold weather.  Or course I had to buy them as LA’s footwear consists of slip-on Vans and flip flops.  My eldest son has grown.  His foot has grown two sizes alone since we’ve been here.  I look at him tonight and see the drooling toddler he once was.  Like a distant memory I desperately want to hold onto, I distract myself from packing to find old photos of him at that age.  I go into his room and stare into his eyes.  He looks up at me and asks if I need a hug.  I insist on cuddling him with my arms on top of his just as long as I’m a fraction taller.  It’s our joke.  He is still, in so many ways, my little boy.

As with most nights before flights, I cannot sleep.  I awake tired, but calm as I have all day to finish packing.  But alas, no.   Zen Jen was replaced by a crazed woman when I realized that our flight was three hours earlier than I had thought!  It’s all there, I keep reminding myself.  Toothbrushes, jumpers, wellies, hats, gloves, scarves, and even Husband!  I really just need the passports and my wallet.  Breathe.

So four enormous suitcases later, I managed to leave some socks behind, I was ready.  No matter how you slice it, there are creature comforts in our wardrobes that we simple have to schlep.  I found myself alone on the porch waiting for the storm of my boys to arrive back from school.  I have sat on my porch many times in these last few months wondering which way its going to fall.  Are we going to settle in?  Certain images come to mind: family sunset walks on the beach, outside living, American football, fishing in Malibu, family dinners for 22, moments with my mom, jokes with my siblings, eucalyptus filled hikes with Heather and life drifting from one day to the next with the sun on my back.

It’s easier to live here, for sure.  There are so many people who don’t like LA and to them I say, you’re probably wanting it to be something it’s not.  There’s no great pace here; you have to create it.  It’s true, you literally drive around the block four times to try and park directly outside your destination – god forbid you walk too far.  And yet, everyone exercises!  Dinner parties are few and far between and a lot of socializing happens over the phone.  There’s no city center.  But, it’s beautiful from the beaches to the mountains beyond.  And for the most part, the energy this place does have is effervescent and embracing.

Off to the airport.  Early.  It’s better that way.  You never know how long security is going to take as we undress all the layers, shoes and computers and put it all back together again.  I once left my computer.  That only has to happen once to know I’ll never ever do that again.  People stare at that poor woman with all those children.  It makes me laugh every time.  We take over an entire row at the gate where five year old dumps out army guys all over the floor – passengers literally have to step over him to get by.  We eat copious amounts of deli sandwiches, chips, cereal bars, whatever.  I get to read trashy magazines and write and there’s still two hours to go!  Up Up and Away…

I spent the first several hours of today with my eyes shut.  The first of these hours was during an acupuncture appointment.  I have been suffering from tennis elbow, annoyingly without the tennis, and have tried using needles for the past five weeks for my treatment. Unfortunately this time round East isn’t beating West as I still can’t tie my laces or hold a shopping bag.  But, I must say, having to lay down with my eyes closed for thirty minutes during the day is therapy in itself.

Then, it was off for a ‘Brown Rice Facial’ from the amazing Galina in Brentwood.  Galina has worked with a local Russian chemist and uses the oil from her brown rice concoction all over your face and then massages it with a micro electrical current wand that deeply hydrates your skin by allowing the oil to seep in deeper.  She has you lie back on her crazy chair that not only reclines, but also moves your legs in a figure eight motion, whilst you close your eyes and let the magic happen.  This ‘closing-of-the-eyes’ morning has done wonders for my mind.  It’s an extreme example of the idea of taking a moment out in your day, shutting everything out of your mind and letting go with a big exhale.  Meditating through needles and brown rice…I like it.

Husband just went back to London.  He left on a high, not an illegal one, but an LA one where the sun seems to be shining on him now.  His film Killing Bono is kicking off – see the trailer!  As I’m not allowed to talk about him (I was recently reminded) I’ll just say that having him book his ticket back here before he even left was a huge improvement.

Sometimes I wish there were other friends crazy enough to do what we do so that I had more references to pull from.  Can’t quite call NBcelebF on this one yet.  Living in the present in both places can be schizophrenic.  My one new friend who lives in this way is afraid for me to return to London as I may not wish to come back.  It’s a significantly statement but I’m not sure it will ever represent me in full.  I’m trying to avoid the seismic pull of infatuation, where one country takes hold of my senses romantically and I long for just it, so I’m trying to remain grounded in the allure and seduction of both.

It’s been a crazy week of planning events in LA and planning dinners and parties in London.  I feel like I’m headed for memory overload – a wonderful expression used by a homeopath to describe why I forget things, important things, the moment they go into my brain.  Knowing this phenomenom occurs with me, I’m desperately trying to remain focused on the jobs at hand.  The boiler broke in London, the shower exploded here, end of school performances that dominate the diary and end of year trips in London that need to be put in diary so boys can see their friends, and I can see mine, and so it goes.

My heart races with excitement that we are all going ‘home’ for the holidays.  I relish the knowledge that the boys call both places home.  They may have had a tougher academic ride as they navigate both countries style of teaching – and therefore learning, but their lives are undoubtedly enriched by feeling at ease, at home, in both.  These last few months have seen my heart grow bigger and my fortitude become stronger so that we can, as a family, have these adventures and make them wondrous.

Last night of Chanukah and my eldest son breaks his toe.  They were playing a game of ‘It’ involving an obstacle course with my new chairs, and I heard the smash and scream.  I was hiding in the corner of the kitchen unseen at this point, listening to music, writing and generally pretending I was alone in all the madness.  I finally responded,  “Are you okay?”  “No!” screamed back my son.  “I hit the chair with my toe, it’s broken!!” “Which chair?” I asked, still not convinced I had to get up from my seat.  “Did you just ask me which chair??  Is that all you care about, your new chairs??!!” he bellowed back.  Umm, of course not, but, the chairs are brand new.

Now, the law of averages suggests here that there are many more false alarms than there are broken bones.  Well, that used to be the case in my house.  Sure enough, I got up to find true pain being endured at the other end of the room, so a phone call was made to the orthopedic doctor straight away.  Americans are upset with Obama’s attempt to nationalize health care but I am living proof that our system’s broken.  After a huge monthly insurance premium paid, I am only now paying off the broken elbow which ran into the thousands -after insurance- and can only hope that a broken toe will be a fracture that’s a fraction.

The next day we all went to the appointment at the doctors and believe it or not, the boys began yet another jumping-freeze tag game in the waiting room.  I nearly lost the plot – seriously, must they always see life as a team-tag, capture the flag experience??  Sister in law says that because there are four of them, there’s always two teams ready to play; there’s just not as much down time for all of you.  Well, the doctor finally saw us, all, and he could only laugh at the sight of them.  Two confirmed with broken bones and two with enough cuts and bruises to ponder just what it is that their mother does to them!  I told him, without offense, that I hoped I didn’t see him for a long, long time.

In the wind down to leaving I gave ‘The Lecture’ last night.  “Boys, please, please, take it easy.  Don’t jump off of things, don’t play too hard or fight or use swords, guns, knives (those are all plastic by the way) or do anything too crazy.  We are going on a plane soon.  Please, just calm down.  And wash your hands, all the time.  Please.”

It’s been three hours.  Christ, I hear tears!  Needles and brown rice, needles and brown rice…

Thanksgiving week.  In America, Thanksgiving gives Christmas a run for its money.  People work Monday and Tuesday planning when they can take off on Wednesday, and the whole country shuts down Thursday and Friday.  Our sons’ schools were shut all week, much to Husband’s distress.  It’s consumerism at its best; Black Friday sales beginning at 3 am and all stores perform double back-flips (especially in this economy) to get your attention and shop.

The meal in itself – turkey, all the trimmings, five different pies and copious amount of alcohol – is enough food for the whole weekend.  It’s a successful dinner if you feel sick at the end of the night and most people achieve that beautifully.  But what is truly fantastic about Thanksgiving, and what makes it my most favorite holiday, is the lack of religion connected to the holiday; the idea that this day is for all of us Americans regardless.  Giving thanks is something families forget to do often enough together and this is one day where that theme can’t be avoided.

My five year old’s class was asked to tell a few parents about the meaning of Thanksgiving.  One little boy stood up and said, “This is the day when the poor people in England were mad at the King for not letting them think what they wanted and so they all came over to America on the ship called the Mayflower…even the Jews!”

My sister had a fabulous cocktail party the night before in which she gave a loving speech about being thankful for us being here this year.  It’s been at least five years since we’ve all been together.  I then was asked to speak and as I looked out at the room full of familiar faces, I realized how we have indeed settled into a total life here.  Up until that night, LA felt like a life-style filled with my family and a few close friends,  and London is where our life is, where Husband and I made a life together.  Right now, I feel that both are very real and trust me, I am forever thankful for that.  A strange and wonderful reality.

Our boys, well, the fact that they are all happy and thriving, that I spend very little time worrying about their state of minds is both natural – for them and for me – and a relief.  It’s true what they say about kids:  if you – the parents – are happy and their home-life is stable, then they can do anything.  They’re incredibly adaptable if you give them consistent love, attention and laughter.  Mine require a lot of running as well.  Again, I say this having yet to go through puberty with any of them, but for the most part they all seem game with any plan we hatch, any change, any course, which is amazing.

I sat next to a famous celeb at a school function.  I was in my own world and didn’t click who she was at first.  Then I noticed that everyone was looking at us, well, her, and only then connected the dots.  I had a glimpse into how strange and uncomfortable her world is and really acknowledged that I didn’t want to be a famous actress.  It’s taken me the best part of 25 years to accept that I’m really not going to get discovered by Spielberg at the market – even Husband seems to leave me on the cutting room floor, and now I am happy to add I wouldn’t want it anyway!

Me and celeb ended up chatting for a long time about how to raise conscious, well mannered, nice kids who can remain thankful in the midst of having so much.  Some would say that she has tainted one of her sons with a sunglasses line that he supposedly designs, but the truth of our 90 minutes together was that she is also a mom trying to navigate through the crap that can surround our children in the hopes that wherever they may live or travel, they will not behave spoiled, they’ll have a strong sense of themselves, and of right and wrong, and give back something to the world.  In her case, the new Gucci kids sunglasses line.

Hollywood can be holy weird, a place where even the postman is an actor.  For me, it represents a state of fluctuations whereby the end product of any given day can shape the rest of my year.  It’s part of a big city, spread out amongst the ocean and mountains with desert just beyond.  In the middle of Los Angeles county of which there are 4752 square miles and 11 million people, everyone actually doesn’t know each other and people still come here to make their dreams come true.  There is optimism amongst the sarcasm, and most people still say ‘Have a nice day’.

Post Thanksgiving, now shopping for the next massive family dinner – a Chanukah party at my brother’s this weekend.  I look forward to this time of year even though when it comes, so too comes the flood of stress, emotion, end of year promises and regrets, and school crescendos that take up more time than I have.   I can’t believe that London is now a trip around the corner; a marker for us at the first term’s passing and a chance to flip our lives back for three weeks.

I check the weather on my cell phone every morning for Santa Monica and London.  I flick the screen back and forth, back and forth.  Today, as I sat in my car at the Starbucks drive-through (!!) it read sunny days ahead, mainly 60’s for here and snowy days in the 30’s over there.  Now, you may hear a snicker from me as I sit in the sun writing this in my shorts and UGGs as I can hear a snicker from London friends that I managed to get a cappuccino without leaving my car.  But the truth is, half the time I romanticize about the roaring fires and the cozy nights, the blinding white snow that reflects so heavily off the ground that everything looks bright and the fur coats you get to wear for months in London…and then I wake up!

I can hear our neighbor next door.  He is laughing out loud in his garden and his voice is deep and manly.  I remember a time when I would see him every day we were here, school or no school.  Now, he’s 15, 180 lbs, bench presses 225 and has a girlfriend…or several.  He rarely comes round between football practice and long school hours, and he can’t even babysit anymore because of his crazy schedule.  It happened in a moment, this transition into young adulthood, and I miss his dropping in and hanging with the boys, hugely.

We’re lucky enough to have amazing neighbors in London as well, whom the boys have equally grown up with.   It will always be special even though the years between them are becoming enunciated more and more now that they are all either teenagers or quickly headed that way.  Only my five year old crosses all boundaries and insists on playing with everyone, regardless of hormones.  They grow up fast, I’m constantly told, these children of mine, and at times it feels like a snail would move faster, but I can truly see it now.  Time is flying by.

My life for years was shaped by having a child at home.  Naps, eating, playing; my days were constructed around these events.  I couldn’t picture life without these boundaries.  And then, finally, my little one went off in his suit and tie to Reception in London last year and I had the space to do so many other things.  But it doesn’t ever work out that way as we all know, and in the end, the little extra time I did have just meant I was able to go to the market that much more and walk the dog a little longer.

In the beginning, especially, I had a very difficult transitioning period knowing that this was it – no more kids at home.  At the same time my dear friend had another baby and I watched close-up that intensely warm bonding process, all over again.  My sister in law, meanwhile, was trying to survive proper ’empty nest syndrome’ with my niece off for her gap year of travel, and together we cried a lot.  Anyone can fill space, but to provide more to your life and use the time wisely is another story.  We both knew it was right to let go, but we just didn’t want to.

And now, in LA, my little one is in Kindergarten, again, (he’s not thick, it’s just an age appropriate decision:), and I’m not as pained by his absence as much.  Dare I say I’m actually okay with it now.  Like with so many things in life, it just takes some getting used to.

This week we went to our boys’ parent/teacher conferences and it was, as ever, a completely different experience than the English ones.  For a start, the conferences are during the daytime and the students are off school.  For two days!!  In England, it’s an evening event, with lots of wine and the teachers sit exhausted in a U-shape table formation waiting for what looks like a speed dating conference to begin.  5 minutes, then they’re looking at their watches and start to fidget.  You discuss test results and behaviour.  Period.

Here, you sit comfortably with the teachers with coffee for at least 20 minutes, spending an inordinate amount of time discussing whether your child seems happy.  Husband fidgets, waiting for test results to be presented and I relish in the attention and talk slowly about my son’s abilities, strengths and weaknesses.  I’m loving the connection despite Husband giving kicks under the table to hurry up and stop talking so much.

My five year old’s teachers began our chat by laughing.  And then they laughed so much that I started laughing.  After about five minutes of full-on chuckling, they finally told me that my boy was the ‘mayor’ of the class, that everyone loved calling him their friend.  So I took the opportunity to add my bit about my boy’s loveliness, but then re-focused them to the academics at hand.  “So, how’s he doing, you know, with reading, writing, maths?” I asked with trepidation.  Then the pause came.  “When it comes to work…we think he still may view learning at school as an ‘abstract concept’,” they said vaguely.  Abstract concept????  What the hell does that mean??

He’s only five, yes.  In England he’d be doing his bloody times tables by now.  And here, he’s running for Mayor.  Great.  Thank G-d for the night time globe game where Husband spins the globe, and if you can name the country or body of water that his finger lands on, you get money.  Five year old’s wallet is filled with dollar bills, so something’s going right.

My husband still feels panicked that none of our boys are going to learn anything in a progressive system and tells me often that they don’t need to be happy in school – he wasn’t and it didn’t do him any harm.  Ha!  I think he’s just pissed off that our 13 year old was studying the 50’s and 60’s in his history class and Husband realized he was a walking history lesson!!

Last night we were calculating how many times I would hear the word ‘mom’ in, say, 40 years of motherhood.  We got to 8 million.  Seriously, 8 million times.  As we contemplated this, my nine year old said ‘mom’ about five times just to get my attention away from this…he didn’t see the humour in it at all, just wanted me for something.

It took me until my fourth child to hand over my life to motherhood, and love it.  It can be mundane, repetitive and difficult.  It can make me feel powerless, uninteresting to others and tired.  But…I am constantly challenged, I am the moral barometer (for the moment) of right and wrong which gives me lessons about what’s important.  I am teacher, nurse, dance instructor with serious moves, and tennis guru (again, for the moment) and we haven’t even hit the subject of girls yet!

Motherhood may not be the most interesting subject to bring up at a dinner party and I may stay in work out clothes all day without showering, but at least I’m having fun.

The room was purposefully sterile.  One window looking out onto the road, a small TV set high up in the corner wall with a fuzzy picture playing cartoons.  The bed took up most of the space – pulled white sheets, a chrome rack underneath for clothes and two monitors and an IV station were positioned behind it.  A small swivel stool and a hard, undesirable vinyl chair were against the wall for visitors.  It was freezing in there, and quiet, but for the occasional beep.

My son looked at me.  His eyes told the whole story.  He was scared out of his mind, white with the fear of the unknown, and he wanted to leave.  Husband walked in.  His presence made it more serious.  One by one the nurses and doctors came in: the surgical nurse, the anesthesiologist, the pediatric orthopedic surgeon and then the after-care nurse.  They wanted to meet my son and talk him through the surgery; he just stared blankly at the Curious George program on the TV, not wanting to engage and not understanding any of their terminology.

Forms, forms, forms.  Payment before the surgery was also required which was strange.  Then his IV was put in, blood pressure was taken and the risks were read out to us, privately, so as not to freak him out.  As parents you’re supposed to be stoic, considered with your words and emotions, stronger than you may feel and not panic.  Then it was time.

We walked down the corridor next to his bed, holding his hand as they wheeled him to the surgical room.  He looked up at me quickly and tears were rolling uncontrollably down his cheeks.  But not a word came out of him.  Not a sound.  He’s that type of kid.  I squeezed his hand and felt him squeeze me back.  I smiled with the lump in my throat growing and growing and managed to get out some words telling him we’d be right here when he woke, not to worry about anything, just go to sleep.

We watched him until the doors shut behind his bed, looked at each other, and wept.  We returned to his room, now bed-less and uncomfortably empty, and I cried for any and all the parents who go through this for something truly significant.  My son broke his elbow and in his world it is very significant.  But in the great scheme of life, all should be fine and it’s an important but not life threatening surgery.

I told my husband that I want to volunteer in a Children’s hospital helping the families of sick kids.  Having the slightest taste of watching your child have a general anesthetic and throwing all prayer upwards that he wakes up okay, I can begin to understand what it must feel like to deal with truly hideous health issues.  Staring out of the window in his cold room felt like being in a prison; watching the world get on with normal life whilst you awaited with the tick-tock of the clock in another universe altogether.

He’s fine now, or will be.  He’s got a glow-in-the-dark cast and a lot of attention.  We are scarred, though, just that little bit more from the experience, especially after last week’s concussion with my other son.  In the last few months we’ve suffered two broken bones, a hit and almost run from a car crashing into my son and a cracked-open head injury.  And that is just since summer!  I’m seriously considering helmets and body armour at this point.

Unlike the UK’s socialized health care, I know I will be getting endless bills, after insurance decides how little they are going to pay, for the next several months.  Which is also scary.  Americans have never felt the health system working for you like you experience with the NHS in the UK.  I know it’s not perfect and people do die waiting, there.  But for kids, to get emergency care straight away, and excellent service, medicine and after-care for your tax money, is seriously gratifying.

I’m putting all the boys to bed after my nephew’s birthday.  We sing our goodnight song and the ‘Bear Song’ as our rituals and I close the door part way.  As I walk down the hall and scream back at them to stop talking, I can only be grateful, once again, for their health and their safety.  If I could roll them in cotton wool (as my sister in law would say) I would, occasionally, just to keep them secure.  I suppose part of this letting go that mothers and fathers do is allowing them to fall, literally, and hopefully learn something along the way.

It would be great if my sons learned not to use their heads, and bodies, as weapons of mass destruction.

I’m feeling very pensive, a bit lost in my emotional world.  I feel sensitive, raw and a bit bitchy.  I wonder why today is so different in outlook than, say, yesterday.  Then I remember, like a long lost thought, confusion finally settling, I am about to get my period.  How funny is that.  I am in my (very) early 40’s and still, every month, I am totally stunned by my intensely dramatic emotions that come on suddenly, like flu, and terrorize my mind only to eventually realize oh, it’s PMT/PMS.  Ha.  I wonder how many women are like me?

So I’m in my own world struggling through the stresses of work, family and life- choices, waiting for the Husband to ring about an important meeting, when I get The Call.  Eagerly, I answer the blocked number hoping that it is Lady Luck saying ‘Hello’, when I heard the voice of my son’s Head of School.  “I’m sure everything is fine,” he starts off slowly.  I’ll mention now that my son went on a school trip to the Grand Canyon and like all school trips, he left heavy-hearted.  “What’s up?” I ask.  Pause.  “We’re on our way to the hospital, your son fell on a rock and hit the back of his head pretty hard, but he seems okay.  We’re just making sure.”

Now, of all the calls I could have received, of all the thoughts controlling my mind, this was the farthest from my expectations and the one that could totally and utterly grip my heart.  The next twenty minutes were spent with manic phone calls between Husband, the doctor in the ER in Arizona and our local doctor here.  We insisted on a scan before he flies as he’s suffered a mild concussion for sure, only to be told that too much radiation to a 13 yr old’s brain could equally result in problems.  I just wanted to see my son.  I wanted to look in his eyes, and close mine, and feel my intuition.  But I couldn’t and I was scared.

When we finally called off the scan, my poor son was literally on the table, half-way into the CT machine, shaking from the experience himself.  He flew home a few hours later and was in my arms for the next several hours, until he fell asleep.  We watched him and stroked his hair like a little baby, checking he knew his name throughout the night.

Intuition is a strange and wonderful thing.  It’s a true sixth sense that can inspire me to carry on, keep my faith in something or give me strength to know which way to turn.  My son’s accident came at a time when I was completely wrapped up in our tiny world here.  All the stress that was going on was making me dig deeper and deeper into my faith and gut instincts to guide me along.  Needing, wanting Life to ‘call’ me, to change the course of luck – or lack of – was a plea to the Universe, as some would say.  I was putting it out there ten fold only to receive the hardest call ever.

But I heard the message loud and clear.  Take stock in where you truly have luck, be grateful and the rest, is simply life.  Up down, all around.  Life.  It’s so difficult sometimes to feel balanced when you feel enveloped in an energy field that is throwing you from the ground, from certainty, and what you really believe in begins to look like fantasy.

In our case, that is when the argument to move back, to return to what you think you can control more, rears its head.  Have I made the right decision to move?  If it’s right for the kids but not right for the husband, is it still right?  He’s happy if I’m happy, but knowing myself the way I do, I’m not selfish enough to carry the decision based on me.  And frankly, I am happy in both places.  All I know is that my intuition tells me to be calm and remain quietly optimistic and just ride the tide.

Off to the beach…

Every Wednesday I make seven packed lunches.  Four go to my own boys and three go to the homeless.  One of our schools runs a program whereby we donate lunches to a homeless shelter once a week, through our kids, so that they have the ritual of bringing in the lunches.  The idea is that they will gain a sense of giving and a consciousness of a greater community.

This morning one of my sons asked me how old the person was that was getting the lunch.  The truth is I assumed it was a child because of my own association with packed lunches.  But I called the school to make sure and quickly discovered that my peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches, organic fruit gushers, juice boxes and animal cookies were in fact, going to homeless adults who were out looking for work.  I can only imagine the strange wonderment they must be having by eating various forms of  superhero fruit-rolls.

American people are used to being asked to give and many are quite altruistic by nature.  I have most definitely found that to be true in all aspects of life here.  The schools greatest focus with the parent body is fund-raising.  Apparently the private schools all declare that the cost of tuition doesn’t ever cover the cost of educating each child and therefore they rely heavily on donations to fill the gap.  I do love my schools here but I find the gap hard to stomach when our school has just announced its three step plan to acquiring more real-estate.  The annual giving campaign, along with endowment and capital campaigns, must clearly fill the gap, and then some.  In England, the parent body would be wildly offended at this declaration and wonder how the Head would have the audacity and ignorance to display such bad bookkeeping.  But here, it’s straightforward fund-raising, shameless in its approach, laid bare for you to rescue.

Every dollar raised in the state schools represents the ability to keep art, special needs and music programs, or not.  There is simply as assumption that everyone will give something.  State budgets have been so thrashed in California that teachers work one less week per year and counting.

My 13 year old nephew, Tyler, Viv and Nathan’s son, was recently honored at an event, along with two other honorees, for the American Wheelchair Mission.  This organization gives mobility to those most in need around the world by donating wheel chairs.  Tyler raised $42,000 as his Bar Mitzvah project – again, a fairly new concept but an excellent one where a thirteen year old uses their bar/bat mitzvah experience and focuses on a meaningful charity to them, and donates money, time, or both to that cause.  He was able to help purchase 280 wheelchairs and personally deliver them to victims of terrorism in Israel.

His parents gave him the opportunity to see what it feels like to change someone’s life for the better, through your own hard work.  Priceless lesson.  Some believe that the State should provide; that charities are a reflection of the failures of government and that we shouldn’t be asked to make up the difference.  Some don’t like the tell-all banners associated with giving, it’s slightly obnoxious to name the sums with bells and lights and also it can take away from feeling good about giving, especially if you aren’t able to keep up with the Jones’.

Personally, I think it has to be touchy-feely for my kids to understand it.  Hand deliver the x-mas presents to the orphanage rather than dropping them off anonymously.  Have a lemonade stand and then donate the money raised (or should I say part with the money that you are gripping so tightly in your hand) to a Children’s Hospital or homeless shelter.  No point talking about the kids in Africa not having enough food, when Africa is just another continent far, far away.

However, I did hang a huge canvas filled with the faces of the children and men and women we met whilst in Sierra Leone.  These people were hungry and in need of everything.  Sierra Leone is the poorest country in the world and having never been to Africa, I felt like I chose the most difficult trail to walk on. I hung the canvas because these people are beautiful, and I must admit, I use it as a constant reminder to my boys that these kids are out there – for real.

In Africa,  the more uncomfortable I felt, the more I understood about the common ground that links us all.  Isn’t that what it’s all about, really?  Finding the common ground?  Our organization we work with is called ‘Search For Common Ground’ and works all over the world doing just that.  I suppose that’s why charities play on our heart strings; with the hope that we will feel that link, and help.  Most privileged people were born into that comfortable existence without too much of a fight, and need educating, and those that fought hard to be there are usually the most thrifty, and the most generous.

I know a lot of English givers – friends that climb mountains and bike across Europe for a special cause, those that donate endless hours at prisons or find vacation homes for care-givers and handicapped children.  But it doesn’t seem like its part of their cultural traditions, their upbringing, something felt by most.  It seems like only a few share in that journey. When our English school did a fund-raiser for our sister school in Rwanda, I fought hard to hit hard for more donations, more money.  The rest of the committee thought I was being ‘too American’ in my approach and opted for t-shirts that sold for a fiver.

Here, even the poorest give to their school, church and neighborhood.  It’s expected on some level and equally recognized by our government with significant tax benefits.  I’m not sure I feel comfortable getting hit up by my schools, politicians and friends every third email, but I do get a sense of belonging to the greater world by giving back.  And that is what I’m trying to teach my kids.  The gift of giving…surely you’re the one who receives the gift in the end.