The Kind of Day It Was

I decided to make tamales this week.  I've been thinking about them since Christmas and then I found an easier-than-usual recipe for them and then on Tuesday I made them.  I've been sick for a week, so I wasn't feeling very well, but I thought a tamale would be just the thing to cheer me up.  As the tamales were steaming, I was trying to use my tablet but it seemed to have given up the ghost.  It only offered me error messages, and I was feeling very frustrated as I turned it on and off and on and off and on and off (my only tactic for reviving it), since I've owned it for less than a year.  My tamales were taking a really long time to steam, so I made some nachos as an appetizer but then I shattered the nacho plate when I dropped the salsa jar with my clumsy pregnant hands.  When Steve entered the kitchen to see what the noise was about, he asked me why the kitchen was full of smoke and I told HIM that it was full of steam and then we realized that all the water had evaporated from my pot and my tamales were being smoked and our expensive pot was burned to total ruination.  The real indignity came after I tried one of the tamales and realized that the masa was rancid, so I couldn't even eat any of the time-wasting, pot-ruining creations.

When The Bairn asked why I was wailing, I explained that I was sick, my tablet was broken*, my pot was ruined, my dinner was inedible, and my plate was broken.  "Well, that's just life, Mom," he said.  It was a very philosophical response from someone who throws a fit when he can't drink out of a red cup.



*Steve fixed the tablet.  He's a good fixer.

Welcome to the Circus

I feel like a 3-ring circus when I take the children to church without Steve's help (which is always).  Today we were running late, so we made it into our seats just a minute or two before the meeting began.  As I was settling the two kids, the woman behind me, who I'd never seen before asked, "Are you [MBC]?"  and I had to answer, "I am, but I need just a minute because I just realized that I've left my bag in a puddle in the parking lot."  We had a major thaw and then rain for an entire day and now everything's wet and flooding (but no ice!), and when I set Ellen in her carrier and the bags on the ground to get The Bairn out of the car, I only brought one bag with me and we have two. So the important bag, the one with snacks and a sling and books for The Bairn, was still sitting next to our car in the wet.  I asked someone in the row ahead of us to go fetch it, but I gave poor instructions on where to find it so he came back empty-handed and I had to go get it myself, after handing Ellen off to someone, during a hymn, so that Ellen's baby doll wouldn't come back to us completely soaked.  Also, because the only thing I could find to amuse The Bairn in our OTHER bag was a Popsicle stick with his name on it that one of the Primary children made for him and after he sent that down the vent and then begged me to get back (impossible!), he spent most of his time making escape attempts while I nursed Ellen, making it impossible for me to police him.  He only made it back two rows before someone caught him.  And then some kind soul came and sat by us to help manage the circus.

The best Sundays are when my friend Linda and her granddaughter Taylor sit by us.  Taylor is 11 and The Bairn loves her, because she reads him stories about puppies during church and because once she came to our house and pushed him around on his ride-on car.  He likes to sit next to her and fold his arms and call out to everyone around us, "[Bairn] reverent like Taylor."

My favorite part of Sunday is after we come home.  When The Bairn wakes up from his nap, I take Ellen upstairs and all three of us snuggle in the glider.  Sometimes The Bairn falls back asleep and we all have a nap together or sometimes, like today, Ellen sleeps and The Bairn and I read stories until Steve comes home and I'm grateful for two little soft babies even if my Sabbaths are no longer restful.

Morning at Our House

When The Bairn wakes up too early for me in the morning (MOST mornings), he and Steve go out into the living room and have Good Boy Times while I stay in bed.  This morning about 8:00, Steve peeked into the dark bedroom to see if I was awake. 

Steve: It's probably about time to get up.

MBC: Nooooo.  I'm tired.  I'm staying in this bed forever.

Steve:  I made a delicious breakfast to help you get up.

MBC: What kind of delicious breakfast?  (Sometimes the delicious breakfast is a delicious MAN breakfast full of meats.)

Steve: Buttermilk waffles. (my FAVORITE!)

MBC: Let's go.

As I was getting up, I heard Steve in the hallway saying to The Bairn, "She says she'll come out," as if they'd been conferring earlier about whether or not I was really going to join them today.

I'll Do Most Anything for Free Food

I got a free makeover on Saturday morning.  The woman doing the makeovers was, of course, selling a cosmetics line, but she promised me muffins, so I agreed to attend the event.  There were only two of us being made up and the other woman was VERY enthusiastic about the whole thing.  She talked a lot.  Canadians tend to be chatty, in my experience.

When my makeover was complete, I had extremely dark red lips.  Enthusiasm Woman loved it.  She couldn't get over my lips.  She wanted lips just like mine.  What color lipstick had they given me?  If she saw me in line at the bank, she would definitely notice me, because my beautiful lips and I would stand out.

I did not like the red.

The woman doing the makeover assured me that I looked lovely, even if I was outside my comfort zone.  She just knew that when I got home, my husband was going to see those gorgeous lips and want to give me a big old kiss.  I doubted that very much.

I ran a few errands on the way home.  I took my fancy lips to the farmers' market and the library and the pharmacy.  (Oh, the ease of running errands without a marmoty baby to tote around!)

When I came home, I gave my baby boy a kiss and left red lip marks on his head.

I told Steve that the ladies loved my make up and he told me that I looked, Hmmm, a bit scary.  I wiped off my 4 layers of lip 'product' and then he was very happy to give me that big ol' kiss the makeover woman promised.

Please Say 'BWAH'

The Bairn got his second tooth today, something I didn't realize until Steve pointed out that The Bairn's cute new trick of sticking his tongue out one side of his mouth is really just a way for him to feel the new tooth and that the reason he refused to sleep anywhere but in our bed last night and that he insists on being attached at all times to my body are also because he's growing teeth. 

So, he's teething and spent most of the day on my hip, which was fine except that I had to call the bank today.  The bank has an automated voice system that takes me to my customer service representative, which is usually fine, but was pretty much rubbish with The Bairn so close to the phone.  Here's how it went today:

Automated Lady: Please say your member number.

The Bairn: BWAHHHHHHH.  Bwub bwub bwub.
MBC: 12 (BWAHHHHHH) 345 (Bwub bwub) 67

Automated Lady: I'm unable to verify your membership.  Which department would you like to speak to?  Say 'banking,' 'insurance' . . .

MBC: Insurance.
The Bairn: Dadadadadadaaaaa
MBC: InSURance.
The Bairn: Ah-BWAH  Ah-BWAH
MBC: Insurance!

Automated Lady: I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that [she really does say that!].  Say 'banking,' 'insurance' . . .

MBC: Insurance!
The Bairn: BAHHHHHHHH!

We did finally get through the menu to an actual human.  He had an easier time understanding me, even with a babbling sidekick.

Fun Times in CPR Class

We have a parent resource center in town and I extra special love them.  L-U-V.  They operate a toy library and a free swap shop of baby and children's items.  They're breastfeeding friendly, so, for example, if your bairn happens to be having a meltdown in the grocery store parking lot and you drive him as quickly (but safely) as possible to their building, they will give you a comfy, private place to sit and offer you refreshing beverages while your wee one screams the place down to express his displeasure before consenting to eat.  For example.  And they have great programs.  Today I went to day one of my two-day infant/child CPR course.  Which they offer free.  And which they provide childcare for free.  And if your bairn is feeling needy and still wants to eat every two hours his whole life until he's 18, they don't mind if you bring him along to the class.  And there are snacks.

As with all community services, about half the attendees of these kinds of programs are, how shall I say it, not smart different. I was having flashbacks to my public library days during class when the instructor was showing us the new medic alert jewelry.  They now sell very pretty crystal bracelets and dress watches with your medic alert information on them.  My classmates thought it would be better to just tattoo that information right onto your bicep.  Then for sure you won't lose the alert when you go swimming.  And, bonus, nothing is so classy as a Betty Boop tattoo declaring that you both (a) love your mom and (b) have a peanut allergy.  Then Emphysema Woman shared her story of How I Administered Mouth to Beak Resuscitation on My Ex's Budgie, which was countered with How My Ex Administered Mouth to Mouth Resuscitation on My Cat.

Cannot wait for tomorrow's stories.

p.s.  Yesterday was this kid's 4th birthday.  Here's hoping he had a very special day and that he got that pneumatic drill he asked for.

Disgruntled Shopping

Every couple of years, I visit the grocery store and throw a little internal fit.

This year's fit took place last week.  I was annoyed that there was no baby/parent parking for those of us with babies in the 91st percentile for weight and that jalapenos were only available in plastic packs of assorted peppers and that the produce was all from Spain and cost a billion dollars when we live in an area that grows tons of fruit and vegetables.

I walked past the ice cream and noticed that it was on sale for $4.99.  I read ALL the grocery store fliers and write down the best deals every week, so I happened to know that that same ice cream was on sale across town for $2.99 and that it had been on sale at the store I was in the week before for $2.99.  For some reason, this irritated me a great deal.  Stinkin' grocery store calling ice cream on 'sale' for more than they charged the week before.  I wasn't even buying ice cream but I decided that the grocery store was my enemy for trying to pull a fast one on me in the freezer section.

I rolled up to the checkout and I placed my cloth bag at the front of my groceries so the checkout clerk would know I didn't want her to use plastic bags, and the checkout clerk picked that bag up and tossed it down to the end of the checkout area so I could bag my groceries myself.  She maybe didn't realize that I was pushing a ticking time bomb of a baby in the cart (t-minus 4 minutes to meltdown) and that I could either get out my money and pay for the groceries or I could bag the groceries, but if I had to do both, the baby bomb would explode IN the store rather than in the car (wailing all the way home is the new falling asleep peacefully in the soothing motor vehicle).

I need a farm.  And a co-op.  And an anger management course.

Good Thing These Maternity Clothes are Stretchy

1.  It's beautiful outside this morning.
2.  I proclaimed to Steve that I would be leaving the flat today (a novel idea) to enjoy a walk in the beautiful sunshine.
3.  Steve looked sceptical.
4.  Last time I insisted I needed to take a walk, I only made it two blocks before I declared that we were going back inside and staying there until April.
5.  I just checked the temperature online.
6.  Five degrees Celsius and wind*.
7.  Maybe I'll just stay inside and continue to eat brownies.

*I don't want to hear from anyone that 5 degrees is not cold.  It IS cold.  Very cold.

In Which We Take a Bite Out of Crime

I feel like we call the police a lot--when our neighbor is noisy (he's turned mysteriously silent--we do not question it, we just rejoice), when we discover a fire in our woods (okay, that was really the fire department), when broken down cars are abandoned in our car park, and so on.  I took to heart all those McGruff the Crime Dog commercials in the 1980s.



Our stair tower has recently become even dirtier than normal.  There are cigarette packets left on the steps and the walls are marked up and yesterday we noticed soil scattered all over the place.  We didn't think too much about the soil, until we came home in the evening and Steve spotted the leaves---marijuana leaves.

So, we were back on the phone to the police.  They came over and took our report and asked us a lot of questions and, I hope, didn't find it suspicious that one of our greenhouse gardening books was lying on the floor or that several pairs of gardening gloves were spread out to dry, having recently been washed.

Maybe there'll be a big bust and we'll get an award from the lord provost.

Or maybe not.

Now You Know Why I Will Not Be Posting Pictures of Myself on the Blog

I love it when people play with my hair. My mom is very good at it and will do it for hours and that is one of the many reasons to love her. My college roommates could often be sweet talked into playing with my hair and for a while, when she was small, I could suggest to M6 that she fix my hair and she would run off and enthusiastically return with some hair styling tools--usually chopsticks and mason jar lids. Sometimes even Steve is coerced into playing beauty school with me. I am, obviously, the client and he is the beautician, but last time he participated he spent most of the time musing on what kind of machine he could invent that would play with my hair for him so that he wouldn't have to be involved in the future. Hmph.

Today I went to an actual beauty school. I hadn't had my hair cut since September, but salon services are pricey here, so I went to the local college to have a student work on my hair. I always got my hair cut at the beauty school in Utah and while the students were perkier than I would have liked, always asked me if I was married, and scared me with their shiny hair and fake tans, I never had any real complaints about my experiences there. Today, though. Woo baby.

First, I should explain that students leave high school and start college at 15 or 16 here, so my stylist was a teenager. A surly teenager. She barely spoke to me (which I kind of like in a stylist) but she also barely spoke to the instructor. As in, he asked her how she was going to cut my hair, and she shrugged and stared at her feet. Oh, dear. When she finally did receive instruction on how to cut my hair, she did a lot of scowling and sighing. It really seemed that she hates cutting hair. She reminded me very much of a teenager in gym class being forced to run the mile.

Here's the main thing, though. It took her THREE HOURS to cut my hair. She spent the entire first hour (after spraying me directly in the ear with water while shampooing my hair) trimming one section of hair. I asked her to take about two inches off and she seemed to be doing that a millimeter at a time and a single strand of hair at a time. The instructor finally came along and told her that it looked fine and that she needed to push along because she was taking too long. At which point she snapped at him, "Because I'm not good at it!" Yikes.

Bad experience, but only £3.50. I might still go back.

I'm Thankful for the Stupid Car. Right?

Yesterday Steve and I both had obligations out of town, so Steve left the car near the train station for me to pick up when I got back into town around 9:00 pm. He also sent me a text message stating that the car was very low on gas and that he'd left some money locked in the glove compartment so I could fill it up ASAP.

Well, yes, the car was very low on gas. I made it less than a mile before it lost power and died. But I'm grateful that it lost power close to the only spot on that particular road where it was easy to coast off the road out of traffic. And I'm grateful that there were chocolate croissants in the car that Steve apparently squirrels away because I don't let him make purchases in the grocery store as freely as he once did. And I'm grateful that we have breakdown insurance. And I'm grateful that a nice police officer stopped to see if I was okay, although he was driving one of those white rental vans without windows, so when he first stopped I thought he might be a kidnapper/criminal coming to offer "aid" but actually planning to chain me up in a basement (I read Reader's Digest). And I'm grateful that the car was just out of gas and not actually broken so the car could be easily fixed (after I waited for an hour in the car in the snow) and Steve could drive it far away to work today. But I now feel completely justified in refusing to drive the car. It does bad things.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Interacting with Humans

1. Our local community police officer came to visit this morning. Steve invited him because Steve is the police liason for our residents' assocation and because we wanted to complain to someone with a gun about how we can't stand our neighbor in hopes that he might decide that he also can't stand our neighbor and would like to shoot him in the kneecap a little bit to teach him to keep his music down. The neighbor has another annoying habit of parking on the sidewalk directly in front of the gate entrance into our complex, causing our friend Linda to have to push her grandson in his wheelchair out into the street to get around our rude neighbor's car. We mentioned this to the police officer, but even with our emphasis on grannies and disabled children he didn't promise to throw our neighbor in jail, just to investigate giving him a ticket. I would like to see the neighbor receive a ticket. To jail.

2. I hung out with a group of teenage girls Tuesday night. We danced. I did a lot of literal hip shaking and one of the girls unsuccessfully tried to teach me how to do a body roll. I remembered that while I have experience working with teenagers, I really do better with 3-year-olds. When I wasn't promising to import Mike & Ike's from America and shaking what my mama gave me, I was thinking that they are all really going to regret wearing those leggings in a few years.

3. In addition to my bookstore job, which I haven't started yet, I have a part-time Internet research job which I do from home. It's tedious and intellectually unfulfilling but I can do it in my pajamas while I talk to Pinchy on the phone, so that's good. It's a job that limits my human interaction and sometimes keeps me in the house all day. Maybe that's for the best, though, because when I interact with humans I promise them Mike and Ike's and try to get people thrown in jail.

Woe is Me

Oh, the cruel working world.

I want to re-enter it, but there's a dearth of library jobs (except for the one school library job, which frightens me a wee bit because, based on my experience with the school across the street, I may hate Scottish teenagers. maybe).

So, I'm looking around at other available options. If I were a butcher or a forklift operator, I'd be right in the money, because they are, apparently, urgently needed.

Today I looked at a website for mums returning to work, because I feel like we have a similarly bewildered outlook on the Scottish job market (the mums and I), so maybe the jobs listed there would be friendly, lady jobs. I opened up a long list of links but most of the job descriptions did not speak to me. They were full of ridiculous applicant descriptions. One company wanted individuals able to "delight" customers by anticipating their travel needs.

I really can't promise to delight anyone. It's a lot to ask for £9/hour.

shop with me

Today at the grocery store (my favorite, fancy grocery store), I had a little meltdown. It was the third store Steve and I had browsed through on our outing, and in each store I was overcome with a desire to own stuff. I desperately wanted the cute cardigan at the first store and I desperately wanted the cloth napkins and the Christmas decorations at the second store and I was about to throw a fit in the grocery store because I was desperate to take home the pretty fruit tarts and the jars of fancy curds and the bags of designer chocolate. We can't afford those things just at the moment with our money promised to airplane tickets and insurance and sensible groceries (as opposed to the $20.00 hunks of cheese I lust after), but I wanted everything I saw. In large amounts. We were walking down the aisles while I pointed out products and grumbled, "See that puffin on that cereal box? That puffin has his own line of cereal and I have nothing." I cared deeply that if that puffin wanted to he could seriously indulge himself in some hardcore materialism and product consumption. Steve cared that the puffin character was based on a real puffin from Canada.

I did get to make a purchase. A sensible purchase. And Steve bought some wintergreen mints. As were standing in the checkout line, Steve was sniffing his mints and waxing poetic about the smell of wintergreen, confirming my theory that there's an 80-year-old man trapped in Steve's body. It explains why he loves mints and that gross Canadian candy and wearing his pants hiked up to his eyeballs.

"Why are your shorts pulled up so high?"
"That guy over there's wearing his pants this high."
"That guy's 112-years-old."

It's okay. He can wear his pants under his armpits if he wants to, because he does lots of good stuff too. Like offering to corn me a beef when I feel sad. Isn't that nice?

(But we can't afford a beef today.)

Grocery Store Treats

Today we drove from Boston to Virginia and stopped in a store in rural Pennsylvania. A fantastic store. I wanted to take lots of pictures, but even more than that I wanted to NOT be a gawking outsider. I snapped just one quick picture while the young women running the store weren't looking. This is the candy aisle. Imagine similar rows of flour and pretzels and noodles for Amish pot pie stored in clear plastic bags.


We bought pear butter and seasoning to make Italian sausage (which we can't get in the UK) and these tiny pig sprinkles. I feel overwhelmingly compelled to make a farm-themed birthday cake now.

Yesterday we stopped at a far less exciting grocery store in Maine. As we were standing in the dairy department, an elderly woman approached us. She looked very well put together and friendly, like a grandma. She turned to Steve and asked him, "Do you know how to keep a goober in suspense?" When he said that he didn't, she replied, "I'll tell you tomorrow!" Then she chuckled and patted me on the arm and confided, "Oh, I got him!"

I've never heard an adult use the word goober before.

Sunday in Seven Steps

1.MBC wakes up, groggily checks her watch on the night stand, gasps in a panic, and shakes Steve, crying, “We have to go! We're going to be late!” She then realizes that she is looking at her watch upside down and that it is 5:45 am, not 9:00 am. Fortunately, Steve is a hard sleeper, so he appears unaffected by the false alarm, still clearly asleep as he murmurs something about pudding.

2.MBC and Steve drive to church. This takes exactly 1 hour and 5 minutes, down from the hour and a half it took them the first 5 weeks of Canadian church. Not getting lost on the way to the chapel is the secret to their time-saving success.

3.Despite the fact that it is sunny and warm outside and that she is wearing her gray fleece jacket over her summer church clothes, MBC nearly freezes to death during the first meeting. At one point, she recalls that she has one sock in her bag and puts this on to slow the onset of frostbite. She is wearing socks and sandals at church. Well, one sock and sandals. She feels like an optometrist from the 1980s.

4.After the first meeting, Steve and MBC adjourn to the parking lot for juice boxes, granola bars, and a break from the frigid indoor temperatures.

5.The average age at church is 70-years-old. During Sunday School, MBC reflects that despite Steve's protestations, living in a seniors community is a good idea. The commercial for the assisted living home on PEI always tempts her to move in and enjoy the rousing card games with the elderly that the advertisement seems to promise.

6.After church there will be a luncheon. There is the distinct smell of meatballs wafting through the building during the third hour of church. Moments before the meeting is meant to be over, MBC begins whispering to Steve. “Meatballs. Meatballs. Meeeeatbaaaaalls.” The meeting runs long. Does the man speaking not realize there are meatballs?!

7.The meatballs are good.

I Make a Lot of Lists Lately, Eh?

1. I drove today! I dropped Steve off at school and then I drove entirely unassisted (because the sat nav doesn't know where Aldi is) to Sainsbury's (because it turns out that I don't know where Aldi is either).

2. We're driving to Germany tomorrow, or, rather, Steve is driving to Germany and I'm riding along and taking very seriously my post as Snack Mistress.

3. We recently inherited a bottle of Jaffa orange curd AND I happen to have some chocolate ganache in the refrigerator, making it possible for me to now turn any food into some form of Jaffa cake (Jaffa cakes being one of my favorite British treats). If I weren't so very lazy, I'd make Jaffa cake crepes tonight.

4. I'm reading The Visible World. It's very good.

A Full Report in Photos

The weekend as documented by a photographer lacking photography skills:

Saturday we spent the morning at the allotment. Steve did manly things like rebuilding the shed with his bare hands (and some power tools). I wore my brand new (and very cheery, I think) garden coveralls and killed plants. We're ripping up flowers to make way for delicious root vegetables.

In the afternoon Steve made orange-coconut buns for Sue Anne's going away party at the Dunino Den

where there were egg races and a bonfire and little children tramping about in wellies.

Sunday we visited a park built on a former volcano

that includes a graveyard
looking out over the water
to my favorite bridge.

And then Steve did some more cooking magic by roasting up a chicken for Easter dinner with traditional carrot and turnip mash and the best gravy man has ever known.

It was a great weekend. I even got to talk to my wee marmots.

Oh, I am Too Tired to Tell You

We went to Peterborough.
We bought an old car.
Steve loves the car.
We drove it north.
We got so tired.
We stopped at many roadside service hotels.
We determined that roadside service hotels are out to rip us off.
MBC wrangled an excellent hotel/breakfast deal so we stayed the night somewhere in England.
We did not have clean underwear or toothbrushes or the like with us.
We drove back to Scotland.
We stopped at IKEA.
MBC discovered that the Swedish cheese Steve loves (Steve loves most Swedish things) is Russian breakfast cheese!
We bought cheese.
We came home.
We drove to a river.
We collected rocks for small children.
We wrangled children at church, which is our new thing.
We expected 10 children.
We received 17 children.
17 is a big number.
We are tired.

Why I am a Bad Patient

I went to the doctor today. I don't like going to the doctor. I spend the days leading up to the appointment worried that I don't have enough symptoms and thinking, "Maybe I should cancel. I'm fine. I feel fine." Then I spend my time in the waiting room developing symptoms completely unrelated to my condition and thinking, "My face feels warm. Maybe I have a fever. Is that a chest pain? I think I just had a chest pain." By the time the nurse comes to get me, I'm lying flat on the floor bequeathing the contents of my purse to the geriatric patients waiting with me.

And have I mentioned how I hate health insurance companies? I do.