In about August my husband got a promotion. His company opened a new branch, and he applied for, and won, the position of branch manager at the new branch. This is Awesome (and the extra money is nice), but it does present a few difficulties.
The new branch is over an hour's drive south of where we currently live, and with hubby working 7am to 5pm, we don't get to see him much. He gets up at about 5am and leaves before 6am every morning, and he doesn't get home till well after 6pm. Some days he doesn't get home until nearly 8pm, if he's had to stay back for some reason and the traffic gets bad. He's also "on call" 24-7, meaning that if someone calls in the middle of the night and needs something, he has to go in and open the store to sell them stuff - not fun when the store is so far away.
Because of this, we decided to move down the coast. He's been desperate to get out of Sydney since we moved here, and this is the perfect opportunity. After a few setbacks we've found a house and the bank has agreed to throw money at us (contracts are exchanged, just waiting for the tenants to vacate in March and then we settle), and Critter is enrolled in school - which presents the other difficulty.
The house is due to settle mid-late March. Critter starts school at the beginning of February. That gives us about 6 weeks where we are living over an hour away from his school, and I don't even drive. Things were looking tricky. Hubby could take Critter down with him every morning, let him play in the warehouse for a couple hours, take him to school, pick him up after school, let him play in the warehouse for another couple hours and then come home. Except that I don't relish the idea of waking a 5year old at 5am every morning to get ready for school, and its hard enough spending 12 hours a day away from my husband. I don't think I could handle having the boy away for so long too.
So hubby came up with a good, if expensive, idea. We are renting a "holiday home" for 8 weeks. Its in the suburb we will be living in. Its 4 houses away from the beach. Its fully furnished, so all we need to take is clothes, food, and Gosling's cot. And we're moving next Sunday.
My parents bought this house in 1987. Other than 8 months up the coast when I was 5, and my not-quite-2-years in California, I've lived here since then. My husband has lived here since coming to Australia, my children have never lived anywhere else. I have 5 days left in this house.
I'm very excited, and I'll admit to being a little nervous. We only bought the very very basics in groceries this week, in order to use up as much of whats in the cupboards as possible. I'm trying to remember where our suitcases are, so I can pack up all our clothes. I'm also trying to figure out the best way to transport 2 pot plants, and how to take 2 cars down, when we only have one driver. But my biggest concern? I think the new house has a dishwasher, and I don't know how to use one.
Monday, 18 January 2010
Saturday, 9 January 2010
Of Roots and Proper Pronunciation
I've noticed that I refer to my father as 'my father' and my mother as 'mum' throughout this post, and I find that rather interesting. I was brought up to call them Daddy and Mummy respectively, and seeing as they each referred to their own parents thus until their passing, it would be acceptable, and possibly, to them, even preferable for me to continue to do so. While I love my parents, I do not get on with my father particularly well, and my mum less well than I would like, and the terms 'my father' and 'mum' reflect this.
My father was born in England at the tail end of WWII. His father had served in the British navy during the war and became a politician, and later a door-to-door salesman, his mother could best be described as a socialite. She claimed to have had tea with the Queen, been kidnapped by a sultan, and run off to join a circus at 16. I'm serious. His family lived in Jamaica when he was very young, and when they moved back to England and he started school, he was sent to boarding school. He went to Clifton College, and upon watching Monty Python movies, noted which teachers John Cleese based the characters on - he was a year ahead of my father. My father moved to Australia with his first wife when he was in his early 20s, moved back to England a few years later, moved back to Australia after marrying my mother, and is a LAWYER.
Mum was born 362 days later, in the U.S.A. Her father was a farmer who had served in the U.S. army in Britain, opting to stay at desk work instead of taking the better paying job as a sniper, because he couldn't bear to take a human life. Her mother was a "war bride", a British girl who fell in love with an American soldier, and went back to the states with him. She had what the doctors called "muscular dystrophy", but still went out every day to fetch water from the well at the log house my grandfather built, when she had two young children. When mum was 15 they moved back to England, for better medical care for her mother, and mum left school, not being able to stand being in the 'babies' french class - she hadn't learned french in the U.S.A. She had various jobs, among which was taking tours in Spain and teaching rudimentary English. She married my father when she was a secretary at the same law firm he was at, and they moved to Australia. Some 20 years ago she started work as an ENGLISH TEACHER (teaching the language to overseas students) and is now head of department at an English Language school for overseas students. She re-started her education at the age of 50 when she went to University in order to earn more.
What was the point of all that? Well, there are a few main things to take note of:
I was born in, and have lived most of my life in, a country where Steve Irwin's accent, while ridiculed, is actually quite normal, the 8th letter of the alphabet is habitually pronounced HAITCH, the c-word is a far too common nickname/greeting/insult, and when an ad on the TV got complaints for using the word "bugger", they issued an apology ad, using the word about sixty-gazillion more times. Despite this, I somehow ended up with an almost-English accent, and often say/pronounce things in a way that makes my American raised (British-born, but he claims it doesn't count) husband walk around with his chin tucked under and his teeth sticking out, being "British".
I distinctly remember my father teaching us that the 'h' in any 'wh' should always be pronounced, before the 'w'. Thus:
My father was born in England at the tail end of WWII. His father had served in the British navy during the war and became a politician, and later a door-to-door salesman, his mother could best be described as a socialite. She claimed to have had tea with the Queen, been kidnapped by a sultan, and run off to join a circus at 16. I'm serious. His family lived in Jamaica when he was very young, and when they moved back to England and he started school, he was sent to boarding school. He went to Clifton College, and upon watching Monty Python movies, noted which teachers John Cleese based the characters on - he was a year ahead of my father. My father moved to Australia with his first wife when he was in his early 20s, moved back to England a few years later, moved back to Australia after marrying my mother, and is a LAWYER.
Mum was born 362 days later, in the U.S.A. Her father was a farmer who had served in the U.S. army in Britain, opting to stay at desk work instead of taking the better paying job as a sniper, because he couldn't bear to take a human life. Her mother was a "war bride", a British girl who fell in love with an American soldier, and went back to the states with him. She had what the doctors called "muscular dystrophy", but still went out every day to fetch water from the well at the log house my grandfather built, when she had two young children. When mum was 15 they moved back to England, for better medical care for her mother, and mum left school, not being able to stand being in the 'babies' french class - she hadn't learned french in the U.S.A. She had various jobs, among which was taking tours in Spain and teaching rudimentary English. She married my father when she was a secretary at the same law firm he was at, and they moved to Australia. Some 20 years ago she started work as an ENGLISH TEACHER (teaching the language to overseas students) and is now head of department at an English Language school for overseas students. She re-started her education at the age of 50 when she went to University in order to earn more.
What was the point of all that? Well, there are a few main things to take note of:
- My father is ENGLISH, and was raised fairly upper-class.
- He is a LAWYER.
- My mum is an ENGLISH TEACHER.
- She was raised in the U.S. by an English mother, who wanted to make sure she spoke properly.
- She has a masters degree.
I was born in, and have lived most of my life in, a country where Steve Irwin's accent, while ridiculed, is actually quite normal, the 8th letter of the alphabet is habitually pronounced HAITCH, the c-word is a far too common nickname/greeting/insult, and when an ad on the TV got complaints for using the word "bugger", they issued an apology ad, using the word about sixty-gazillion more times. Despite this, I somehow ended up with an almost-English accent, and often say/pronounce things in a way that makes my American raised (British-born, but he claims it doesn't count) husband walk around with his chin tucked under and his teeth sticking out, being "British".
I distinctly remember my father teaching us that the 'h' in any 'wh' should always be pronounced, before the 'w'. Thus:
- Hwale
- Hwether
- Hwip
- Hwat
Wednesday, 6 January 2010
Gallows Humour
At the very beginning of December, I found out a good friend was pregnant. She comes over most weeks, we lets the kids run riot and enjoy what is sometimes the only adult conversation we have all week, other than our husbands. (And seriously, do boys necessarily count as adult conversation? I'm not sure the merits of one wrestler over another, and just exactly why golf is so wonderful really count.) That week, she had been feeling 'odd', and while she wasn't *ahem* late, she decided it would be worth a test anyway, so she bought one on her way over.
Due to not being late, the line took a looooooooong time to come up, and was very faint. So she used the one I had left over from last July with Gosling, just to be sure. We looked at those tests, and while those lines took a while, both of them were definitely there. By August, we would have 4 kids between us.
We've joked in the last couple of years that she's been stalking and copying me, trying to imitate my life. Her little girl is almost exactly 18months younger than Critter, and people often think they're siblings when we're out. (Her husband is half-greek and mine's mostly-half-italian, so the kids have ended up with olive skin, but somehow they've also both ended up with blondish hair and super-dark eyes. Gosling is the only one who's blue. I'm sure people think all three are mine, since she is a tiny blue eyed brunnette.) The new one was going to be 18months younger than Gosling - the same 4.5yr age gap as mine have. We laughed and joked, she took my leftover pregnancy vitamins, and we made plans for her to borrow our cradle, and to swap strollers once her bub was born, so she could have the baby one, and I'd have one better for a toddler.
When she came round a couple weeks later, she mentioned that she hadn't been feeling sick yet. At all. Morning-noon-and-night sickness had hit early with her daughter, but so far, all she'd had was tiredness, and she was beginning to wonder. She wasn't worried yet, but she was wary.
Then, that weekend, the weekend before Christmas, the facebook posts started. "K is having an exceptionally ***** day." "K is planning on getting very sozzled this silly season." "Super strong pain killers+couch+tea+chocolate = my day." I didn't want to believe it, but when she rang me in tears there could be no doubt. The bleeding had started on saturday, and an ultrasound had confirmed there was no heartbeat.
We talked. We cried. We agreed that all those stupid things people say really don't make you feel any better, they only make you want to scream. "There must have been something seriously wrong with it." Well thankyou, now I have an image of a badly deformed baby in my head and I'm already upset. "At least it happened now. Think about how much worse it would be if you'd been further along." My baby died and I feel like my heart has been ripped out. I do NOT want to think about how much more it could hurt, and quite honestly I'm not sure I believe you at the moment anyway. "Well your baby is in a better place now." I DON'T CARE I WANT IT HERE WITH ME IN MY ARMS!!! And perhaps the worst, "Theres nothing you could have done." I KNOW that, but you just aren't helping.
For me, now, some two and a half years later, some of those idiotic things people say are a comfort. To know that if my baby had survived it might have been in constant pain, but now it is safe, and will never know pain or fear, that is a comfort. To know that it wasn't something I did, that I do not have to live with guilt that somehow I caused it, that is a comfort. To know that my baby is resting in the eternal circle of God's loving arms, safe and waiting for me, that is a comfort. But in the beginning, none of that helps. All you want is to cry, and scream. To be angry. To blame yourself. Odd as it sounds, believing that I could have stopped it helped sometimes. To come to terms with the fact that it was out of my hands was hard. And all I wanted anyone to say was "I'm so sorry. Can I do anything for you? I'm here if you need me."
For her, one thing seemed to help. "Well, I see you haven't given up copying me, but you're running a bit late you know."
We laughed until we couldn't breathe, and then everything was just a tiny bit better.
Due to not being late, the line took a looooooooong time to come up, and was very faint. So she used the one I had left over from last July with Gosling, just to be sure. We looked at those tests, and while those lines took a while, both of them were definitely there. By August, we would have 4 kids between us.
We've joked in the last couple of years that she's been stalking and copying me, trying to imitate my life. Her little girl is almost exactly 18months younger than Critter, and people often think they're siblings when we're out. (Her husband is half-greek and mine's mostly-half-italian, so the kids have ended up with olive skin, but somehow they've also both ended up with blondish hair and super-dark eyes. Gosling is the only one who's blue. I'm sure people think all three are mine, since she is a tiny blue eyed brunnette.) The new one was going to be 18months younger than Gosling - the same 4.5yr age gap as mine have. We laughed and joked, she took my leftover pregnancy vitamins, and we made plans for her to borrow our cradle, and to swap strollers once her bub was born, so she could have the baby one, and I'd have one better for a toddler.
When she came round a couple weeks later, she mentioned that she hadn't been feeling sick yet. At all. Morning-noon-and-night sickness had hit early with her daughter, but so far, all she'd had was tiredness, and she was beginning to wonder. She wasn't worried yet, but she was wary.
Then, that weekend, the weekend before Christmas, the facebook posts started. "K is having an exceptionally ***** day." "K is planning on getting very sozzled this silly season." "Super strong pain killers+couch+tea+chocolate = my day." I didn't want to believe it, but when she rang me in tears there could be no doubt. The bleeding had started on saturday, and an ultrasound had confirmed there was no heartbeat.
We talked. We cried. We agreed that all those stupid things people say really don't make you feel any better, they only make you want to scream. "There must have been something seriously wrong with it." Well thankyou, now I have an image of a badly deformed baby in my head and I'm already upset. "At least it happened now. Think about how much worse it would be if you'd been further along." My baby died and I feel like my heart has been ripped out. I do NOT want to think about how much more it could hurt, and quite honestly I'm not sure I believe you at the moment anyway. "Well your baby is in a better place now." I DON'T CARE I WANT IT HERE WITH ME IN MY ARMS!!! And perhaps the worst, "Theres nothing you could have done." I KNOW that, but you just aren't helping.
For me, now, some two and a half years later, some of those idiotic things people say are a comfort. To know that if my baby had survived it might have been in constant pain, but now it is safe, and will never know pain or fear, that is a comfort. To know that it wasn't something I did, that I do not have to live with guilt that somehow I caused it, that is a comfort. To know that my baby is resting in the eternal circle of God's loving arms, safe and waiting for me, that is a comfort. But in the beginning, none of that helps. All you want is to cry, and scream. To be angry. To blame yourself. Odd as it sounds, believing that I could have stopped it helped sometimes. To come to terms with the fact that it was out of my hands was hard. And all I wanted anyone to say was "I'm so sorry. Can I do anything for you? I'm here if you need me."
For her, one thing seemed to help. "Well, I see you haven't given up copying me, but you're running a bit late you know."
We laughed until we couldn't breathe, and then everything was just a tiny bit better.
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