Navigating Christmas After a Death

I was just telling some friends of mine about what our Christmas was like immediately after my mom died, and thinking about it made me laugh, so I thought it would be a decent blog post. Yes, the pictures are unrelated. :) Hope you can deal. Of course you can, because my pictures are often unrelated. Also, I'm not totally convinced I can do this story justice with such a short blog post. Each one part should really have its own post, and I wish I had related pictures.

A quick note about these pictures, though. We took the kids to Hyde Park on Monday. They're having this really cool Winter Wonderland area with a Christmas market, Santa's village, a carniVUL, not a carniVAL, and a circus (to Mr. A: "Would you like to go to the circus?" Mr. A: "No, that's ok." Of course he doesn't want to do something FUN. He'd rather run around yelling with excitement over common squirrels.). Mr. A got to go on a really weird carnival ride, Mini-Minion sat in a faux-Cinderella carriage, and both kids got to meet Santa. It was a great day, although we learned the hard way for a second time that Converse are NOT the shoes for snow. Ahh. . .will I never learn? Never.

Ok, so back to the blog topic. Picture this. . .My mom died the day after Thanksgiving in 2004. We won't get into all the details, because it doesn't matter for this story. My brother (R) was 12 (almost 13) at the time, and I was just determined that he was coming back to Paris with us for Christmas. In my typical bull-headed fashion, we got his dad to say yes, I spent a ridiculous amount of money getting his passport in two days, and then we just booked his return ticket for when *I* felt like it. There was no discussion with anyone. I felt he should go home on January 2nd or 3rd (whichever it was), so that's when he was going. It's a wonder people like me at all. I think I'm definitely one of those people you either really love or really hate.

Anyway! This was not going to be a ruined Christmas. Sure, we didn't have our other family members with us, but the four of us were together (remember, this pre-dates Mini-Minion), and that's all that mattered. We threw together a Christmas dinner with our wonderful friends Darci and Marla, both of whom were also teaching English in France. Darci had a friend, Amanda, who was flying in from Atlanta, and who was "crashing" our dinner party. The more the merrier!

I had gained another kid overnight. A greedy, materialistic tween kid who I now had to Christmas shop for. I scrambled around trying to find something to get him in Paris (not exactly the coolest place for a young lad -- "Oh, but I'm telling you, EVERY fashionable boy of 13 is wearing pink Lacoste polos this season!"). I think we expedited The Chapelle Show 1 & 2, The Simpsons 1 & 2, and I got him one of those crystal photo things with the Eiffel Tower or something.

Our house was full, the boys were taken care of present-wise, and I was convinced of my own awesomeness, which I assure you is ALWAYS the first indicator that things are about to go wrong. I made cinnamon gingerbread ornaments as gifts, because I was obviously the second coming of Martha Stewart. They started cracking as soon as they dried. No big deal. I gave one to Darci. When she opened it up, Gingey had been quartered. ("Here's a gift that comes from the heart! Merry Christmas!") Sigh.

Christmas Eve, we went strolling around Paris. The boys ice skated at City Hall. We walked by Notre Dame, and the evening mass bells were ringing. I don't possess the writing ability to tell you what it was like. Perfection.

For some reason, I was still on my "Yeah, I'm so totally awesome" delusional kick, so I decided it would be a great idea to make cinnamon rolls from scratch. So I send M to the store to get what I needed. I started making them at 10 or 11pm on Christmas Eve. I made my dough and set it out to rise. By 3am (yes, 3am), I finally accepted defeat and realized my dough was defective. Either that or it had something to do with my dear, sweet, wonderful husband accidentally picking up baking soda instead of baking powder. <--- (the least amusing of M's French adventures)

We had nothing to eat for breakfast, but the boys didn't care. They were excited about their gifts. M had a special one for me. "You remember that disposable camera we found in your mom's room when we were cleaning it out? I had the pictures developed for you." Isn't that sweet? R and I climbed up on the couch together and opened the first packet, excited to see what our mom was taking pictures of. These could have been the last pictures of a family gathering, my baby shower, her with friends. . .who knew? Well, we knew then. They were pictures of some teenage girls we had never seen on a trip to Disneyland. What on earth? Somehow either the cameras or the pictures got switched. Enthusiasm deflated.

Darci and Amanda arrived later that afternoon. Darci pulled M and I aside and said, "I want to pull a prank on Amanda. At dinner, let's tell her it's a Mormon tradition that everyone has to sing a full Christmas carole at the table before anyone can eat." Me: "Umm. . .ok. That sounds pretty ridiculous." D: "I know! It's going to be awesome!"

I tried to make egg nog (my confidence in my own abilities was pretty low at this point, but it obviously wasn't completely depleted) from scratch. . .without any kind of electrical equipment. Yeah. . .just don't. Seriously. Don't ever do that. But the rest of the dinner came out ok, until Darci decided she was the world's greatest gravy maker. I was talking to her, watching her scoop her flour out, put it in the sauce pan, stir a little, and then put another scoop of flour in. Over and over. Finally, I said, "Darci, how much flour are you putting in there?" She looked down and yelled, "Oh my God, it's like paste! I'm so sorry! I ruined Christmas." She spent the rest of the night making comments like, "Wow, look at me, I totally ruined Christmas." and "I bet you don't want to invite me to any holiday dinners again."

We (M, Darci, Amanda, Marla, Alex, Ryan and I) sat down to our gravy-less dinner (I'm not a massive gravy fan, so it made no difference to me), and Darci is giving me the eye. We had discussed our "plan" for Amanda in the kitchen, and we (M and I) were told repeatedly "Ok, but you can't laugh when you tell her." So M cleared his throat and said, "We have a tradition in the Mormon church that no one can eat until everyone around the table has contributed a full Christmas Carole. Darci, will you start?" Oh, plan hitch. No one had told Marla, who was sitting on the opposite side of the table, about our joke. She looked like a deer caught in headlights. Darci starts singing "O Little Town of Bethlehem," but it's coming out that kind of crackly high-pitched sound of someone who's trying really hard not to laugh at her own cleverness. She got through the first verse before turning to Amanda and saying, "I'm just kidding! It's a joke I came up with!" M and I were shaking our heads, Marla was visibly relieved, Amanda seemed confused, and Darci was still laughing at her own joke.

After dinner, we put Alex to bed and we all played Scattergories, which is the worst game ever to play with Darci and Amanda. They came up with the worst answers (Slogan that starts with 'A': "Athletes make for great fitness"). But it was really great to laugh. So in the end, Darci most definitely didn't ruin Christmas, and in spite of everything, that year remains in the top 5 Christmases I've ever had.

They Act Like it Never Snows

Here's the thing. . .I like living in London. No, that's not true. I LOVE living in London. There are so many great things about living here, and I think we got over culture shock here marginally faster than we did in France, probably because there is very little in the way of language barriers (I should really do a whole post on that).

That said, there are some things about living in the UK that really leave me scratching my head. Like most Europeans, they don't like ice. They have some sort of ice aversion. It annoyed me when we first got to France in 2004, but now it just makes me laugh. I got a diet coke at McDonald's the other day. . .not a single piece of ice. It's not like ice isn't a renewable resource. You take water, and you freeze it. It's really quite simple. But the Ice Hoarders here, they act like ice is a finite resource. Once it's gone, man, I guess it's gone, and there will be no more ice in the whole of Europe.

Another thing that. . .confuses. . .me about living in the UK is this whole snow situation. I've been to London three times in the winter. It snowed once (while we were on the top of an open-air boat on the Thames -- so totally NOT delightful), so I didn't really figure London saw a lot of snow. Then we moved out here to good ol' Mortlake, and I discovered that not only was I wrong, but that it SNOWED here. Mr. A has been bouncing off the walls with excitement since we moved in, waiting for the snow to arrive.

Ah, but here's where it gets interesting. So it snows. And really not that much. Yet we're treated to the airports closing, the trains freaking out and refusing to run, buses (oh, how I hate them) running even MORE behind, and giant headlines proclaiming: BRITAIN IN DEEP FREEZE. Now my scalp is practically raw from the scratching, because when I think "deep freeze," I think of, well, the frozen tundras of Russia or the northern parts of Scandinavia or Canada.

The pictures above really show how much snow we're talking about in London. Half the schools were closed. I'm serious, the trains were not running out of East London. The (London-area) airports were closed for days, and now I hear the Eurostar has angered people by pulling a quarter of its services. They act like this never happens. Except it happened last year. And the year before. This area has thousands and thousands of years of history. I'm pretty sure it has snowed lots of times. It's a little like eating candy before dinner, and then saying, "Wow, I never thought it would ruin my appetite. This is a huge shock. What am I going to do now?"

This also means shipping is extremely slow, with everything backlogged in warehouses. That means nothing is getting delivered and few things are going off to other countries. Once everything gets going again, there will still be serious delays. And on top of this, I just got an email from my other arch-nemesis, Transport for London, saying there will be major works on the tube/overground during the holidays, and there is apparently going to be ANOTHER freaking strike on the 26th. While people are trying to do Boxing Day shopping. Nice, guys. Nice.

All this aside, though, London is amazing. This is just one of those things that you have to shake your head and roll your eyes at. It is what it is. Tisk, tisk. :) Also, I think I figured out what's wrong with my camera. Judging by the massive difference in pictures depending on who is handling it, I think it's safe to say my camera is suffering from a disorder that starts with an M and ends with a c.

Mr. A Has a Christmas Program

About two weeks ago (on a Tuesday), Mr. A came home with a piece of paper that said: "Your child will be an innkeeper in the school's Christmas program. Please gather a costume together. It would be helpful if you could have this by the dress rehearsal on Thursday." Come again? You want me to throw together a costume in one day? With my schedule?

He didn't make it for the dress rehearsal. I had to stop by Asda (UK equivalent of WalMart) on my way home from class to pick up a dressing gown for him. I grabbed a small all-white one from the women's section, figuring I could use it afterward. They didn't have any plain ones in the little sections.

The day of his first performance, he came home and said, "The kids laughed at me when I put on my costume." It was more stated, and I could tell he wasn't REALLY upset by it. I kind of fluffed his hair and said they were probably laughing because he looked silly wearing a robe at school, but it probably wasn't malicious, and sometimes we can't help but laugh at things.

The night of his performance (the following day), M set off with Mr. A early, because he had to be there 30 minutes before the show started. I stayed with Mini-Minion, intending to catch the bus and get there about 10 minutes early. Stupid, stupid 419. Freaking stupid 419. I wasn't joking when I said it was the bane of my existence. I HATE that bus. It didn't show up. It finally arrived AFTER Mr. A's performance started. There was another 419 directly behind it (the one that was on time). I wanted to scream.

I honestly can't tell you what the performance was about. It was obviously supposed to be the story of Jesus' birth, but. . .yeah. I don't even know what was going on. The kids were cute, though! But they were doing all these things. . .and I can't even tell you what these "things" were. It was just the most inventive retelling ever.

Oh, Mr. A. . .right at the end of the program, I got a good look at Mr. A standing up. And then I realized that not only was the women's small WAAAAY to big for him (hilariously big), but it had HEARTS all over it. I wanted to fall through the floorboards for him. As it was, I laughed. And he caught me laughing. He knew. Not only did I fail to get him his costume in time for the dress rehearsal and come way late to his show, but I also dressed him in a woman's dressing gown with hearts all over it. Parenting fail.

I talked to M later, and said, "Oh my God. You do realize his robe has hearts all over it?" M said, "Yeeah. I saw that. It's probably why the other kids were laughing at him."

Probably. And this is just another thing to add to the list for his eventual therapist to deal with, I'm sure.

The moment I was caught laughing.

But then again, maybe not. Because I don't know if I've mentioned this yet or not, but I have one of the coolest kids ever born. What I did to deserve him, I don't know. But he is insanely awesome, and I'm so lucky he's mine.

But Mr. A is SO cool, he loves me anyway.

The Day Mini-Minion Earned A Belly Badge

This is what I woke up to after a nap one day. I guess working from home isn't too bad for M. . .he gets to spend his afternoons drawing Care Bear belly badges on his grateful daughter, who somehow got orange marker on her face in the process. Seriously, how excited was she? She spent the rest of the afternoon giving us Care Bear Stares.

So. . .England is cold. When it's windy, it's downright AWFUL. But still, I wouldn't trade it for anyplace in the world. :) I really love living in London. Well, maybe I'd trade it for Paris. Maybe. Maaaaybe.

The kids like it. Well, I guess Mini-Minion doesn't know any better. But Mr. A says if our family and his friends were here, he'd rather live here than where we were living. They've got access to so much more here, though.

I'm starting to realize the thing that really sucks about playing catch up with a blog is I forget all the witty things I've been planning in my head. And oh, believe me. They were witty.

I Think Something Is Wrong With My Camera

For reals. It's not focusing the way it should. But that's not what's wrong with these pictures. No, M likes to mess around with the camera. He fancies himself David Lachapelle or something. So whenever I start taking pictures, the settings are really jacked up. REALLY messed up. And it often takes me about 10 minutes to realize it. <--- Now that's my fault.

I wish I had some cool story to go with these, but it's really boring. Mr. A had a school program where they got to show off the hats they all made for Maths Weeks. MathS. I don't get the extraneous "s." But when in Rome. . .

Oh! I guess I could talk about Mr. A's school. . .He's enjoying it a lot. His teacher is really nice. The school does seem to beg for money a lot, which is tough, but I guess that's just the way it is these days. They do have a lot of fun activities. I think, though, that this is the undesirable school of the district. Their events don't seem to be quite as big as the neighboring schools.

The student body is pretty diverse, which is nice. They also offer a lot of cool clubs, like Arabic, French, net ball, knitting, gardening, and drumming. Mini-Minion thinks Mr. A's school is really cool. She's always staring longingly at the nursery section, waiting for her turn to go in. She so badly wants to start school. Soon enough.

The only thing I can even really complain about Mr. A's school is how we get there. Oh, that 419 bus is the bane of my existence right now, especially with it being so cold outside. Sometimes we wait for 25 minutes or more for it to come. It would take less time to walk. The 25 minutes wouldn't be so bad, except it's supposed to come about every 10-15 minutes, and I usually get there a few minutes before it's supposed to arrive. Sometimes it just doesn't show at all, and we've got to wait until the next bus is scheduled. That bus is also usually late.

Back to the MathS show-off. There were a lot of awesome hats on display. I was impressed with what some of the kids came up with. Mr. A was a little embarrassed by his Fibonacci hat, but I thought it was adorable. He made and illustrated it all by himself, and that's really what counts.

Mini-Minion ran out of steam about 3/4 of the way through the assembly.

And she narrowly missed getting stepped on because she wouldn't move.

Check it out!

Halloween in December! Heck yeah! Ok, so I've been really bad about updating. I've been getting Facebook messages and posts (and emails) for a few weeks now, so I guess it's time to update from Halloween. . .just before Christmas! Go, me!

Well, at the last minute, we decided basically to use what we already had at the house for the most part. We bought Ava a new dress (it's reversible!), and used my clothes for Alex. Ta-da! It's-a Mario. . .and Princess Peach. They did actually get recognized in the street, and people were really open to their costumes. Fun.

It took us a bit to get used to the way trick-or-treating is done here. Houses that are participating have jack-o-lanterns lit on their front porches. Which totally made us feel like tools for lighting ours on our balcony and then taking off. But our building is coded, so I doubt anyone was able to get in anyway. We spent about an hour trick-or-treating, which was enough for us!

(One of the few surviving photos of the blue hair.)

The kids got homebaked goods. Seriously. At least three or four houses handed out cookies, cakes and other things. They didn't get poisoned. I don't think that's even a consideration here. It was a novelty, and it even warmed my cynical little heart. :)

It's Almost Halloween. . .

And believe it or not, I don't even have costumes ready. They were going to be Alice and the (new) Mad Hatter, but I had a feeling this would happen (I would run out of time), and I didn't want to waste such awesomeness on lousy costumes. So they'll be those next year. And it will be AMAZING! Feel the power of my awesome costume-making abilities. Muahahaha!

The weather here has been nice for the last few days, as nice as weather in 50s, windy and overcast can be. Ha. At least it isn't in the 30s or 40s and overcast, windy and freezing. Especially because that means more park time for the kids.

Mr. A is due to start school on Monday, which is exciting! The way it works in this borough is we have to send an application to the council, which will then contact the schools and find an opening. They recommend you contact the council before filling out the application to find out which schools actually have openings. Which, if you know me, you know we did. They gave us the names of three schools. Two were secular, one was either Catholic or Church of England (CoE).

I put two of the schools down on our application, dropped it off IN PERSON on the 16th of September, and very stupidly expected a reply within two weeks. After about two weeks, I hadn't heard anything, so I called. I was told the woman handling Mr. A's case wasn't in, but that they had so many applications, it was going to take three weeks to get to his. Aaaand she just had to mention, "I don't think they have any openings at [school #1]." Uh, ok. You're the ones who told me they did.

M was getting really frustrated by this point, because Mr. A had already missed almost a month of school. Not to worry, M, I said. They'll get back to us in about another week.

TWO more weeks go by, and I call again. This time, I spoke to the woman in charge of Mr. A's application. She said, "We're just waiting to hear back about the two openings at [school #1]. Once we hear back from those at the top of the list, your son will be. . . .oh, wait. He's #30 on the list." The end. Seriously, it was silent. Sometimes I think I fail at interactions here. Finally, I said, "Well, that's not going to do. I've already told you, he's not in school at all. This is a problem. I don't care at this point WHERE you put him, but he needs to start school."

She said, "I see you also have down [school #2]. Oh! There's no waiting list there, and they've got an open spot for Year 4." If it were possible to strangle someone through the phone, this might have been a prime opportunity. They were going to leave him on a 30-person-long waiting list when the other school on our application had places the whole time?

(Mr. A took this one -- not bad for a little guy!)

I'll cover his actual new school on Monday, on his first day. It's fun.