Albion hoy!

As soon as it began, the nearly three weeks of freedom have drawn to a close. Tomorrow we head back to our tiny flat, in our crowded city, back to jobs that make us want to kill. How fun for us. The long flight back to Blighty with a two year old? Also fun. This time the child has her own seat, so everything crossed she is as well-behaved on the way home as she was the way here. It's an overnight flight, so I remain ever hopeful that a long sleep will be her dearest companion. Mama wants to get her book on, watch rubbish movies, and make her way through the first Bust magazine she's read in a year.

We were meant to spend this last evening with my Dad and his girlfriend in Philly. However, when we spent a couple of days with them upon our arrival, The Dude overheard the GF say to my Dad in regard to a window-tapping P, "You have to tell her no, lord knows no one else is going to do it." I think we know what phrase immediately ran through my mind, the oft-returned to, much-loved oh no she didn't. I'd thought we did really well reigning in P in their immaculate, toyless domain, but it seems others have a different perspective on our parenting style.

For the record, we do not make an overriding use of the word "no". We want P to explore, be independent and adventurous. However, this does not mean I allow her to manhandle precious glass figurines, smack glass french doors with sticks, or rip the ears off cats. She is unfailingly polite for a two year old - she says thank you, please, and pardon. She's British for god's sake, of course she has manners! When she starts to get frantic over small matters, I have even taught her to calm down and say, "be patient" to herself. I know as her mother I am inclined to think she is perhaps better behaved or more intelligent than others may perceive her to be, but conversely I also know P is fully capable of being a complete asshole and I think I would have realised this had she truly been naughty.

We weren't going to tell my Mom what was said, since she still has unresolved issues regarding my Dad despite the fact that their unhappy marriage ended about 15 years ago. There is no love lost between my Mom and the GF either, so that certainly compounds the situation. My brother, who chronically has one or both feet firmly and entirely in his mouth, alluded to it soon after we got here. I told my Mom what was said, and her reaction was to stop pushing her cart in the middle of Wegmans to loudly pronounce, "Who the FUCK does she think she is?" See readers, this is the origin of my foul mouth! Blame my Mom. Oh, and Molly.

As I am facing a long 36-48 hours, I suppose I should step away from the laptop and an old episode of Cold Case on TNT. Godspeed to me, again.

The beginning of the end

Alas, this is not a post about Aunt Florence's recent escapades - you'll have to wait until the next post for that I'm afraid.

I'm just here to wish myself a happy birthday now that I'm so very, very old. I kid of course, 30 is totally the new 12. I'm not bothered by this landmark birthday at all, as all of the cool kids are in their 30s, 40s and 50s. The Dude, who is six years older than me, is a bit disappointed that he is no longer married to a broad in her 20s and instead is stuck with an old hag now in her 30s. I'm to ignore the fact that I'm married to a guy peering down the barrel at 40 though. Cheers darling.

Presents. My kid sang "Happy Birthday" to me today, finally dropping the "happy birthday dear P" part that she's been clinging to for weeks in favour of "happy birthday dear mummy". I'm honoured that of the 8000 times this song has been sung recently, she has at last determined that her birthday has passed and it's my turn. By the time The Dude turns 36 in a few weeks she might be able to make it topical!

The Dude appealed to my immense nerddom and bought me a book entitled, "Ghost Towns of Pennsylvania", which I am not ashamed to admit I had paged through earlier in the week. More presents are to come apparently, though given the loss of the credit card and the limited dollar cash supply, this may be limited to a free grilled cheese sandwich or gratuitous boob fondling.

My brother got me the new David Sedaris and Seasons 1 and 2 of "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia" on DVD. My Mom, crafty minx that she is, managed to creep over to the gallery next door and buy a series of small paintings I have been coveting. Not that anyone is particularly bothered, but pictures will follow when I can be arsed to upload some photos. I'm annoyed, as my Mom's cash flow is about as limited as mine currently, so now I have a heavy dose of guilt to go with my beautiful new pieces.

Here's where I get unpopular - I'm a bit frustrated with some other relatives because my own birthday passed with little recognition in favour of P's. I know it's so dreadfully selfish of me, but seriously, just because I have a child now doesn't mean I cease to exist. A card would be nice you know. I understand you gave P a card and presents and/or money, but I'm fucking 30 - recognise! I have never understood when people say things like, "Don't worry about me - just get a gift for the kid!" Uh, no. It's not that I'm spoiled, we compromise enough as parents. Now we have to give up our birthdays too?

So, for all of my family that could care less that as of 8.09pm I am officially a 30-something, I've sent myself a card.



Now if you'll excuse me, I must go have a birthday shower. I just got off the phone with Molly and the sexy Minnesotan twang paired with the throaty huskiness of her voice have made me all hot and bothered.

Message from the front lines

Lest anyone think that suburban Pennsylvania is without internet access, or that I am having such a fabulous time living large hanging at Wal-Mart and gorging myself on Denny's, I'm here to disabuse you of such notions. I am desperate to have a good couple of hours to just go online and read blogs, but I had forgotten that my own love of the internet has its origins - my Mom is forever on this thing googling local antiques auctions, and my newly-single brother has been trading miserablist MySpace messages and emails with his cohort of roughly 2126 friends. We are a rather internet-addicted family sharing one ickle laptop and it is decidedly most unfun. It's nearly 12.30am, so I'm going to be rather brief, but I had to get some blogging out of my system.

So my daughter turned 2 on Saturday. 2. It has been two whole years since the best night of my life, and this week is exactly 2 years after the worst week of my life. She has been marvelling in the whole birthday process, and is still singing Happy Birthday to herself and excitedly referring to every cake-like item as "P's happy birfday cake". She thinks her uncle is the funniest person alive, which he very well may be. P's language has accelerated so much in the past few weeks that I am both amazed and slightly saddened that my baby is gone. The mullet is still in place, but even that is slowly disappearing. Oh - tangent. The Dude says P doesn't have a mullet because a mullet "must be curly". WTF? He's such an idiot sometimes. Anyway, favourite P'isms from our time here:

"Mummy, head hurt. I poor baby."
"Ouchy knee much better."
"Gaypa (grandpa) funny! Uncle Dogs (don't ask) funny!" Parentheses mine, fyi.
"Starbucks gimp" - said when told to tell the dog (Gabe) sorry for bitch slapping him. Her love of Starbucks has clearly infiltrated all aspects of her life. For instance:
Me: "P, let's walk this way back to Grandpa's house." P: "No. Starbucks."
"I pooed. I stinky."

I'm tired, my brother is looming over me demanding the computer so he can muse at length about the reasons behind his break-up with his friends via IM. I have some fanfuckingtastic Aunt Florence tales which I was going to blog about now, but as I should really go to bed, I'll leave those for another time.

I hope to comment around soon, though I should make a personal shout-out to my girl DD for having her daughter, who by this late stage is probably nearly 2 herself. Better late than never I suppose.

The sunny side

God grant me the courage to not try to karate chop a plane window so that I can toss my child into the cold, unforgiving waters of the North Atlantic.

She is not always the screaming, hair-pulling ratbeast from hell. Sometimes she reminds me why that pain has lessened to a dull ache. There are the difficult times - far too many these days for my liking, but then there are moments when I realise that I would take a thousand of those times for just one glimpse of this:



She came to get down. Apologies for the sideways nature of this video. I don't have the in-depth knowledge to flip it.

Godspeed to me.

300

This, my 300th post, is just to celebrate what a magnificent idiot I am.

I lost my wallet yesterday for the second time in six months. I had to cancel all of my cards and stupidly believed that other than the inconvenience and severe marital strife caused by this event, all was taken care of. I'd forgiven The Dude for displaying his assholishness earlier in the day, and we were starting to pack in preparation for our departure on Saturday. We logged on to check some of our bank details, and realised that of course as we have joint accounts, his credit cards had been frozen too. Fuck.

So now we're headed to the US in 36 hours with only a fistful or two of cash. I phoned the credit card company in desperation, and instead of sympathy I got a woman who could barely speak English (seriously - for a job on a fucking phone?) telling me that I couldn't get a credit card in less than a day. Cheers bitch. I almost started crying, because yes, I am simply that weak.

The Dude has taken to his bed, so disappointed and annoyed with me for being a scatterbrain of epic proportions, and so tomorrow brings yet another dark day. I just feel ill and completely useless. Happy 300th to me.