Oh, The Places I've Been

Instead of being here on Blogger, I mean

Image credit: thomas shellberg on Unsplash

I didn't mean to disappear; I never do. Longtime readers know that, at least once a year, I fade away and the blog languishes, with no updates on my family, no lectures about exercise and fitness or posts of the (few) amazing meals I make. Sometimes it's because I have news that I'm not ready to share yet, like a move or a baby.* Or because I have no time or energy at the end of the day (every 2-week-or-longer school break, November). 

I wish it was due to travel, but since September, I have been to Wembley twice (ooooo...) and to Potter's Bar. I have travelled for up to 45 minutes to get 15 miles from my flat. And, like a fool, I brought my family with me.

But, I digress.

I've been trying a thing. 

I have a few writing and copywriting contracts that keep me quite busy, and I've been revising and editing my novel (Ground Control! Available on EpisodicReading.com!), and of course, until today, my twice-weekly bootcamps have been taking up time on Tuesdays and Thursdays. But, I also decided to really, truly, fully commit to using more adverbs posting and promoting more articles on Medium.

I joined two Facebook groups that cross-promote and leave feedback for fellow Medium authors, became a writer for three more publications, and wrote two articles a week, mostly in my health-and-fitness niche. It was going well. By putting in approximately six more hours per week than I had been doing, for a whole month, I saw my earnings increase by... not very much, really. However, at the beginning of October, the Medium algorithm changed completely, so I can't be sure how that's working out yet.

Consistency is key, of course. But then it was half term, and three kids back underfoot, and then a week in that cabin in Potters Bar (that story is coming soon). November means NaNoWriMo, which means I'm trying to write another novel (coming soon to EpisodicReading.com!) in a month. And now with the latest lockdown, when my entire life seems to be writing, I don't know that I want to -- waste isn't the right word -- spend an extra six hours writing for a platform that keeps rebranding and rejigging its algorithms. How am I supposed to know what's working?

I'm flexible. I roll with things. From lockdown to homeschooling to having three children and poufy hair, I can rally and make things work. For example, today's bootcamp was ZoomCamp, and it worked (though I did miss the mud). I thrive on challenge and deadlines, and would rather be too busy than underused, though I had a very profane moment last week when Amazon suggested that I might like to buy an adult colouring book.** I can barely imagine what it would be like to be trapped inside, bored and lonely. On most days, that sounds like the best thing ever.

But, I know it's not. The best thing ever is being healthy, sending the kids to school in the morning and knowing that I still have a full day of work ahead of me. It's a warm and safe flat to live, good food to eat, and as much tea as I want to drink.

So, that's what I've been up to lately. I will try my best to catch up on the real-life stuff before all three of the kids are taller than me.

Karen Hough - Medium

Green tea is for the morning. As the kids make their beds and brush their teeth, I boil the kettle. I start with a cup of flavoured green tea from my growing stash of tins and teas. Dragon Fruit, Berry Blend, Sencha Rose, Mint.

*There is no baby. I repeat, I am not having another baby.

**Who the #$% has time to colour???

Update on Huffling Home Schooling

The first thing you'll want to know is whether I've killed my children or husband yet.

I have not.

Proof of Life, as of Friday, anyway. Husband is (probably) just off-camera, honest.
(Image: author's own)

That doesn't mean that I don't want to, or that I'm not going to eventually, but that currently, right now, they are all alive and well. Pink-cheeked and healthy, in fact. Irritatingly so. And breathing through their mouths. And always right there.

Maybe you're also wondering how my novel is coming along, and whether my freelancing work is fun to do while locked to our dining room table from 8:30 - 3:30 every day because the kids' breaks don't match up and everyone needs constant supervision and we can't get to the park except on weekends because we're strictly adhering to the "one-hour-of-outside-per-day" edict.

The answer to both:  It is not.

It turns out that they cannot play together for more than seven minutes without needing intervention: not outside in the jagged-stone-covered courtyard, not with a board game on the living room floor. They can't participate in their daily PE With Joe session without someone watching and telling them to actually try to do the exercises instead of correcting each other (by which I mean, telling each other "you're doing it wrong") and trying to get away with doing the least exercise possible (new record for fewest pushups done in a 30-second interval: three). One of the three can't make it through more than ten minutes of schoolwork without...well, without not doing their schoolwork. They can spend twenty minutes on a task, then, when I look over their shoulder and point out that they have only written one sentence, and that sentence didn't even answer the question the teacher asked (and probably started with "Because"), they get angry, erase or delete, and start again...and usually, they answer the same question like that at least three times for each. Another one of them still can't hold a fork properly. 

Oh, and the tears and screaming!

And the kids' tears and screaming!

It makes for long days. 

It's interesting to spend so much time with these three little people, the apples of my eye that I dreamed of teaching right from wrong, kindness, consideration and manners and realize that I must have failed them in every single way because they have none of any of those things. It can't just be the influence of the media, the school system and their nasty little friends -- the usual things we blame -- that makes them terrible, because they haven't seen any of them in six weeks now.

It has to be something that I did. For this, World, I am truly sorry.

In the meantime, I will continue to not kill my family, or at least try my very best. 

Note to Family Services: this is not a cry for help. However, I hear you offer a service in which you show up and just take one's children. Much appreciated if you could send a pamphlet my way.

Do As I Say (Not As I Do)

Photo by Erik Mclean on Unsplash

A home for fleas

A hive for bees

A nest for birds

There ain't no words

For the beauty, the splendor, the wonder

Of my...

Of course, I'm referring to the one matter that I allow myself to be openly hypocritical about: hair brushing.

My two beautiful daughters* have beautiful hair: one has straight, shiny, nut-brown hair and pulls off a straight bang like she was born to. The other has long, fine, silky, orange hair. Neither have inherited the abomination of thick, coarse, wavy frizziness that has been my poofy cross to bear since childhood.

My husband often stops behind one or the other and strokes their hair gently, a quizzical look on his face, like he's asking whose hair this is, or how they got so lucky.

I often wonder that myself. 

I don't even know what to do with their hair; after all, why would you braid or tie back something that isn't tangled or sticking out at all angles? When my hair looks good (that is, when I have spent 45 minutes with a round brush or a flat iron), I would never tie it back. Let the people admire and enjoy, I say! I will wait 15 minutes until it starts amplifying in circumference and growing wings, and then tie it back, thank you very much.

The number one rule of hair like mine is: don't brush it. Stuck between curly and wavy, but often just plain floofy, on some miraculous days it looks fine. I wash it at night, add a bit of defrizzing stuff to it, and hope for the best in the morning.** And sometimes, this works, and my hair is pleasantly curly and bouncy.  Too often, though, I still grab a brush, even though I should know better after having this hair for over forty years, and just try to... oh dear.

Anyone with coarse, wavy hair knows what happens. It only takes one brush stroke to turn a nice- or even okay-looking curl into a poofy frizz. 

The best compromise I have come up with is combing it in the shower with conditioner in it, which means that my hair gets combed once every 3-4 days at best. 

Science has not yet been able to fix me. I've had probably a hundred recommendations from other frizzsters,*** and I have a giant basket full of products which I haven't yet given up on, which I try every so often and -- sigh -- put back in the basket. The best product I've found is Biosilk, and even that's not a guaranteed fix... it's more of a "slight improvement" to "whatever the situation is up in there". I'll take it. 

In the meantime, and until science decides to stop focusing on "important" issues like "health" and "space", I'll just keep on telling the girls to brush their hair every day, twice a day. 

Like a frizzing hypocrite.

*My handsome son has straight shiny hair, too. Humph.

**Ah. I may have identified part of the problem.

***sisters in frizz

How to Survive Lockdown with My Family

The answer? I probably won't.

In this house, "tea" is a euphemism for "whatever is in Mommy's mug." (Image credit: author's  own)

Well first, don't ask me. Right now, I'm planning on taking them all with me.

I knew this experience would be challenging, but it has been awful so far, even though:

• we are locked up in our (admittedly big) flat
• we are easy walking distance to groceries (wine) and corner stores (wine)
• we were granted special permission to use the courtyard (which up until now has been referred to as the "visual feature only -- no access allowed" in any and all flat correspondence)
• I work from home most of the time anyway
• I have lots of creative ideas for staying active inside
• we are living in the most connected time in all of human history, as far as being able to talk to, see, share with your friends*, coworkers, gyms, drinking buddies, etc.

It should be easier.

When the lockdown was threatened, when the governments were "just" closing borders, I bravely and humbly and civic-dutily declared that all these cancellations were just inconveniences, that anything that I lost (my half marathon weekend in Prague, a trip to Halifax to visit my grandmother, a weekend in the Sherwood Forest, and a week on a farm with the kids and dog in Wales**) was just me being selfishly disappointed.

I was fine with the kids still being at school, yelling after the bus, "Don't forget to wash your hands!" every morning like a crazy person. This replaced my usual mantra, "Don't forget to drink all your water!" Like a crazy person.

But now they're at home. And so is Fis.

This has ruined my life.

I went from being a writer, editor, copywriter and fitness instructor with two bootcamps to being an unqualified home teacher with no patience or coping skills who cries a lot. Luckily, the uniform is the same: sweatpants and a generally dishevelled air.

I went from running five to nine miles, three times a week, to one thirteen-miler once a week, because I can't go out for runs during the day, and somehow, running for two whole hours feels like a better option than spending that same two hours with my family. I've been able to do my 30-minute P90X3 workouts at the end of each school day. The kids are told to leave me alone for 30 minutes. Obviously and of course, they don't.

I'm just trying to make it to Friday at 5:00, when I open the wine.

My WhatsApp groups went from six active ones (two running groups, two bootcamp groups, two silly friend groups) to twelve (acquaintances, fitness groups, school groups), three of which I muted immediately, two of which I quit this morning.

I love the entertaining gifs, the songs, the skits that people do when they're home and bored. I don't love that they have time to be bored. I don't love the home schooling and what-to-do-with-your-kids discussions and links. I hate the well-meaning advice of people that don't have kids or whose kids have left home or who do have kids but not in my kids' school to "just take it easy" and "try less academic activities with the kids for now." Just...don't.

The school groups aren't helping me. I put out a desperate cry at the end of the first week for commiseration -- the six hours I am spending at the dining room table every day, between three children's scheduled zoom meetings, assignments, and breaks that don't match up, coming up with recess fitness routines, and the constant checking that the kid in Year 3, 5 and 6 was at least sort of doing what they were supposed to do -- that this was hard for everyone.

Apparently, for those with only children or whose youngest is in Year 6, everything is going great. Good. For. Them. I'm so glad they're able to fit in a full workday while their children do their schoolwork independently.

I can't run my bootcamps from home. I mean, I could set up zoom sessions, but then the children would be feral and unsupervised and I'd be interrupted nonstop anyway. I'm doing most of my writing work after the kids go to bed, so no, this is not an "opportunity" for me to finish my novel or grow my coaching business. This is survival mode. I'm just trying to make it to Friday at 5:00, when I open the wine.

I know -- I know -- that we are lucky to have our health, supportive friends, this space, this structure to our days. I know that my frustrations are petty and that my kids' behaviour is apparently normal, even though they are objectively the worst children on the planet, unkind and disrespectful and without manners and probably changelings.*** I know that millions of people are in worse situations with more fear and uncertainty.

And I also know that all I'm doing to help is to stay inside; I'm not actively helping.

I am sitting at the dining room table, being interrupted every 90 seconds by a question, a comment, an argument, an... hang on...

Update: Tamsin has found her pencil. It was under a piece of paper. And yes, I agree, Ziggy is very fuzzy.







*and former coworkers
**boy, look at me. That's a whole lot of travel in a month. Unusual, but it hurt more because I have stuck Fis with the kids for a total of TEN DAYS since they were born, and this was the year that I was going to turn that number into TWENTY. Yeah.
***with terrible breath

Life Lessons from parkrun

(They're not just running and crying; they're ALSO building character.) (Photo credit: author)

The things we do for love

When we moved to London, I wondered what I was going to do with myself, having left my full-time career behind to follow my husband.

"Maybe you'll become an avid runner," he suggested.

And we laughed and laughed and laughed.

Chris is the runner, has been one since his twenties. When we met, he was training for his second Boston marathon (his fifth-ever marathon) and hoping for a(nother) sub-three finish. So yes, he's a serious runner with a six-day-a-week habit. When we were dating, I "happened" to take up jogging a few times a week, in hope of "accidentally" crossing him on the path at lunchtime, and getting a kiss as my reward. (Speaking of the things we do for love.)

For me, the best part of a run is the shower afterwards. I found, though, since I worked out and taught classes and I married that runner, I didn't see any real reason to continue running. I found excuses to shower at other times.*

However, since moving here two years ago, I've fallen in with a group of runners. Women Running the World have changed my life and possibly/probably saved my life as well. I've written about them before; we run three times a week for set distances, routes and paces, and work up to an annual girls' weekend half marathon somewhere in Europe.

Although I still won't run without the motivation and companionship of a friend, my dog, or Chris -- I do not run alone -- I now define myself as a runner. One might say that I'm a reformed non-runner.

So, when I heard about parkrun (and junior parkrun), I was so excited to share this experience with my children.

parkrun* puts on weekly 5km timed runs around the world, for free. These events take place in "pleasant parkland surroundings" and they are open to everyone: people of every ability take part, from those starting to run to actual Olympians; juniors (aged 4-14) run 2km.

I immediately registered my children. They are like me in a lot of ways, in that many things come easy. But they tend to complain, whine, and quit when things get hard. They are soft.

This is normal, and not just for kids, of course. But because their lives have been so...easy...I felt that they needed to face a challenge. To be uncomfortable.

Character building for free

I was the only one who was excited! We had downloaded their barcodes, set our alarms on Saturday night for 7:30 am, and rode our bikes the mile to the park. It was going to be awesome.

parkrun was a disaster for two out of the three. Crying, gasping, clutching at their throats, it was 2 km of sheer hell, tantamount to child abuse. I suggested once or twice that if they put half the effort into breathing that they put into screaming "I CAN'T!", they'd do better. They were not amused. We all recovered with brownies from Starbucks.

This was not the lesson I wanted them to learn.

A few weeks later, we tried it again. This time, it was raining, and Chris stayed home in his bathrobe, sick. Vaughn tripped right at the start line and was screamily refusing to keep going. I could see Tamsin jogging in fits and starts ahead of us, struggling and crying, because I had told her I'd run with her; but I couldn't leave Vaughn, who needed me more (and hated me more) with every step. At Starbucks afterwards, Tamsin was limp from crying. Vaughn was just angry. Ailsa was strutting around bragging about being the first girl to finish, and the third kid in her age group. She wasn't reading the room. It was a full-on parenting fail.

I told the story to some of the WRW runners the next day, of course hoping for support and commiseration. They all said, "Maybe running isn't their thing. You could find something else that they like."  The consensus was that, even though Chris and I are runners, it's ok that our children are not.

And I fully, totally, 100% agree.

My point of forcing them to participate in the 2-kilometre, no-more-than-15-minute exercise wasn't -- and isn't -- to turn them into runners. They're kids. Of course they'll find sports and activities that they enjoy more. They don't have to play football or baseball like Chris, or softball and swimming (with a hint of late-onset cheerleading) like me. But they have to understand the difference between discomfort and pain. They need to realize that discomfort means that there's a challenge to overcome and that it's worthwhile to put your head down and work through it. These are important lessons that (hopefully) all of us will understand if we live long enough.

Discomfort is just part of life.

So, yep, if you go to parkrun on Sunday, I'm that mom with between one and three sobbing kids, shouting over-cheerful words of encouragement to keep going, to not stop, because if we keep doing these every few weeks or so, I know I won't have to.



* Showers taken after not running are, admittedly, not as fantastic as post-running ones, but I got past that by feeling joy in not running. 

** As an editor, I despise proper nouns that are intentionally not capitalized. Why can't parkrun just admit that Parkrun is so much better at the start of a sentence? e.e. cummings, don't make me come after you next. 

On boredom and blogging and beginnings

My life is not boring.

It's summer holiday, and with three Hufflings underfoot for nine weeks in a row, plus Ziggy the Office Dog, I have a lot going on. Chris is home this week. My parents are flying in for a visit on Monday. I am busy.


Even when none of this is happening, and it's just me and Ziggy (when the children are happily and safely at school for seven hours of the day), I still have running group and book club (both of which totally make me sound entitled), but also two boot camps that I run, a weekly fitness class to teach, training a client or two, and my increasing number of writing/editing contract products and hours to fulfill, as well as the writing that I am really trying hard to do for myself and for publications like Medium. And don't get me started on SEO and social media presence for myself. (Actually, please get me started on SEO and social media presence for myself - what's the old saying about shoemakers' kids going barefoot?)

Waaaaay back in 'ought seven, it was just me and Chris. I had just started my first government job. It was in a fancy, important office, and I was on the lowest rung of the ladder, which I described as "Chipmunk* at the bottom of the office totem pole". I did some scheduling and document review, and had to be ready for more of the same -- always potentially urgent -- often until an hour or two after my scheduled workday. Due to the almost-everyday-regularity of the overtime requests, I asked if I could just come in at 10 am and stay till 6 every day, or 11 to 7 -- but no, I had to be there "just in case".  I asked for extra work and responsibilities, and only sometimes was given those. So, I sat.  I did my work quickly and well, and between tasks, had time to email friends, plan a wedding and start a blog.

With our moves, I often ended up with bottom-chipmunk jobs, and each time, I did the job well, took on extra, but always had -- and I'm not exaggerating -- at least three hours a day of Not Work (but usually five).

And thus the blog was born! I was away from friends and family, and decided that I had missed the "Facebook window", so the blog was how I showed our changing lives and growing kids, how I shared my experiences. How I told my story.

With harder/better jobs at higher levels (I think I can proudly state that, while my last position was definitely not at the Thunderbird/Raven level, it was safely at least at Bear) came more work -- which totally makes sense and helps explain the difference in salary -- my email, external planning and blog time was cut way back. And somehow, now that I'm freelancing upwards of four hours a day and in charge of my own schedule...and have three kids muppeting around my "home office" all day...I have little to no time to do this.

The difference between writing for my blog and writing for publications is simple. I want to write my blog. I want to write my articles, too, but I sort of "need" to write the articles to make money, so the blog falls on the wayside.

This feels like goodbye.

It sounds like I'm trying to tell you that my blog is over, or at least on hiatus. But, boy, is my tone off this time! I will try to do better. I will try to overcome myself, plan and schedule my posts in advance, all while upping my Twitter game and integrating SEO in a perfectly-natural-yet-effective way.

I just need to transfer writing for my blog over to the "life" side of my work-life balance.

Yeah. This totally could happen.

Do you have any tips or tricks to share to make my own writing a priority? 
(That don't involve plugging children into screens, please.)



* For the sticklers, no, chipmunks are not usually represented on totem poles. Thus was my importance.

Ailsa somehow turned nine

So, Ailsa turned nine two weeks ago.  We celebrated, but--

Vaughn turned ten in January, and it's not on the blog.  Oh, and Tamsin turned six in November.

I have been remiss.  But I have now retro-posted both of these important days. Go ahead and check them out.

Good?  Now, back to:

Girl child turns nine

Ailsa the amazing, the indomitable, the awesome, the inspirational... she is as much a force to be reckoned with now as she was for her first few months. 

There is far less screaming and crying now, but the lung strength she built up with countless hours of baby rage has served her well. She, too, is a total bookworm, and does very, very well in school in both languages. She sings and dances, excels in everything athletic, and is loud and brave and fierce and funny. She is usually kind but is always getting in trouble/getting hurt for things that she thought would be funny or cool.

We were "unfortunately" in Malaga (post coming soon!) on her actual birthday, so the poor thing had to spend her special day with monkeys in Gibraltar.

She made the best of it.

AND a frozen pizza party with cake and presents.

For her proper party -- at which she actually wore a dress -- she asked for a pizza/movie party with a few friends at home.

On request, Chris crafted himself out and produced a watermelon pig fruit bowl.

Once the fruit's all gone, it can be used by Saskatchewan fans!

I made two hedgehogs:  one for olives, and one for cocktail sausages.  (Ailsa had found a cool party planning book for sale at the library for £1.  Now, that's $1.70 well spent.)

Fact:  food tastes better when eaten off hedgehogs.

And a dragon cake, which, for my first attempt with fondant, was a complete success. 

We spent an hour or so making crafts: pen holders with paper and glue and a fancy pen topper with FIMO.  While those dried/cooled, the girls watched a dragon movie (during which I sat in the kitchen and ate chocolate).  Pizza and cake, and hometime for the guests!

It was a good day, and a good celebration of the last wonderful nine years.

Love you, little miss!

xo

Mommy

Family Road Trip Survival Guide

DON'T MAKE ME COME BACK THERE
(Photo by Anthony Ginsbrook on Unsplash)

We move on from the Easter Break Survival Guide to this week's more-specific road trip portion.

True, we're only going 2 1/2 hours away, but we will have a full boot*, three kids under the age of eleven, and a dog.  We'll also have a cranky driver.

Fis will be driving, and I will only have the comparatively light responsibilities of navigator, deejay, snack-provider and backseat referree (light, compared, that is, to our trip to Normandy in October, in which I was all these as well as driver and...oh dear, who knows?  I was out of my mind with fever, so I assume I was also the unicorn-wrangler and camel-flyer), so this will be a breeze.  It will be a short drive, relatively (life in Canada is not conducive to road trips of under four hours) (and life in London means that a drive can only be short in distance, not in time, due to traffic), but it is still a road trip.

One must be prepared, so prepared I will be.

Snacks

The Number One Most Important aspect that makes or breaks any road trip is snacks.  Savoury, sweet, fruit, vegetable, trail mix, chocolate, candy, jerky... all snack food groups must be covered for whims at a whim.  Water bottles and travel mugs must be at the ready for all family members, or else.

Snacks

Again?  So important.  Seriously.  Write this down.

Bag'o'books

I remember packing a suitcase with three library books for each member of the family for a trip to Croatia last summer.  "Do we really need fifteen books?" asked Fis.  Silly Fis!

Music and audiobooks

The third line of defence (after snacks and books) is a fantastic playlist that doesn't have songs that you have to turn down at strategic moments to avoid hearing the F-word on what would otherwise be completely delightful and family-friendly.  (Yes, Cake, I'm talking about you.)  But what's even better than a family singalong?  A family listening quietly to How to Train Your Dragon or The Swiss Family Robinson**, that's what.  A compelling audiobook honestly (honestly!) quells the backseat's increasingly obnoxious demands for tablet time and/or further snacks.

Mad Libs

Fun? Check!  Educational?  Check!  Inappropriate?  Check! Especially when one of the children chooses "anus" as a noun nine times out of ten.  It's a classic road trip staple.

Family dog

Although it's counterintuitive, having a dog (even a tiny one) in the backseat with the savages actually ensures a more zen (zen-ner?) experience.  Think of all those studies about people stroking dogs for the benefit of their blood pressure.  Yeah, just like that.

Stuffies and blankies

In the slim chance that anyone quiets down or wants to fall asleep (ha!), these are essential.  Most likely, they'll just get covered with dirt, grime and goldfish crumbs, but again, one must be prepared.

Headphones and yes, tablets

Ok, fine.  The idyllic roadtrip of my youth no longer exists.  You remember, the ones where your thighs stuck to the vinyl seats because there was no air conditioning and Dad cracked his window an inch to let the cigarette smoke out? And there was nothing to do for the entire 18-hour drive to Grandma's except joke about sneaking him some ex-lax so that he'd stop for a break?

No?  Just me?

Right.  So, our kids do have tablets***, and we (I) really like to restrict their access and usage, especially on short trips or in scenic areas. But sometimes, we do what we have to do.

Snacks

Just...the more the better, ok?  Trust me on this one.

***

Fun British Translation Guide
* boot = trunk

** Fun fact: the 1970s Swiss Family Robinson series was Canadian!  Why?

** but not iPads.  Ain't nobody getting an iPad until Mommy gets one first.

Easter Break Survival Tips

It's Easter break, and the kids are home.

A week or two (or in this case, 17 freaking days) off school can be relaxing for kids.  They have been learning their little brains off in both languages, and just need time to be kids.

However. 

My kids are smart, and know that they outnumber me three to one.  My lofty plans for museum visits and cultural inoculation are often eaten up by the greater will of three kids that just really, really want screen time.  Or, they want me to feed them up to six times a day, or get out craft supplies or set up playdates.  They want me to entertain them continuously and also do laundry and clean up after them constantly. They want to make sure that, during their waking hours, I have no time to myself at all.

They are now, as a unit, bigger, stronger and heavier than me.  And they know this. Also, it's usually raining, and I don't look good wet, so I'm less likely to leave the house in the rain.  I'm weak.

Rule 1:  Don't be outnumbered

(Ok, maybe you have no control over rule #1 and it's not a very good rule.)

Rule 1 (revised):  Be in charge anyway

These are the same children that we have to drag, kicking and whining, out of bed at 7 am every school day.  But weekends (and vacations), they are up at the crack of six, saying, "It's morning!" and singing our good morning song (which is still pretty cute, even at 6 am).

So, in the interest of more sleep (for us) and more responsibility (for them), we've made them a deal. If they stay in bed quietly till 8 am, AND make themselves breakfast (milk, banana, and cereal or toast) AND all three take the dog for his morning walk around the block,  they can watch one precious half hour of TV.  If they want a second (30-minute) show, it has to be in French.

We, the parents, have to clean up a little mess (cereal) or a big one (toast with peanut butter) when we get up, but the kids are actively learning what mornings are for me as a mom and helping with the dog that they so desperately wanted.  And, they're learning the ever-important skill of delayed gratification, or work-first-play-later.

Screen time allowances on holiday are necessarily more lax than in Real Life, and with this arrangement, we all feel like we're putting one over the other.  But, in the words of David Mamet, "Old age and treachery will always beat youth and exuberance."

Rule 2:  Just because they're on vacation doesn't mean that they have no responsibilities 

Living in London, we seem to have an excess of school breaks.  All of these take me by surprise, despite the fact that they pop up every five weeks like clockwork.  But, this time around, I am prepared.

I've made a list of fun-and-stimulating activities for the kids to do over these two weeks.  These are things that they can do if they're bored, or if they're (again) bargaining for more screen time (again).  I wrote them on our white board, and went through each item with the kids.  They all agreed that they were reasonable, somewhat important, and possibly fun things to do.

The kids now feel like they have control over what they choose from the list, and when, and I've made a contract, in kind, to interact with them, to be hands on, to let them watch TV, and to encourage the arts over the break.

Rule 3:  Make a list, but let them make their own choices

Our list:

• Read a French book

• Draw a picture of a scene from a book you're reading

• Write a letter to a grandparent (in cursive) 

• Learn and perform a new song (instrument or voice)

• Write a poem

• Work out with Mommy

• Play darts

• Try a new craft:  knitting, crocheting** or Fimo

• Play cards (we are just taking up Rummoli)

• Playdate with a friend (one each)

• Bake AND cook***

• Visit a gallery

• Watch an episode of Dynasties together

• Mornings:  Breakfast, Dog, then TV

What is YOUR plan to survive the break?

***

* three sets of grandparents / three kids - all bases are covered
** please, oh please, let them pick Fimo
*** helping me or Fis****
**** Ok, just me, because Fis can't handle it

Easter: A Huffstory of Deceit

Warning:  Completely disillusioning and probably blasphemous.

Following on the Easter Candy post, I thought I'd break down our annual Easter festivities for those that want to live vicariously through me the morbidly curious.

Wait...WHO's not real?

Every spring, we try to recreate the magic of Christianity by channelling a giant, mythical bunny that breaks into our house and leaves behind chocolate for all children great and small, without even requiring good behaviour.  (This was a huge oversight from Marketing, btw.)

Easter of Years Past

Easter used to be a... if not simpler, then healthier process in our home. On Easter Eve, I sit down with a giant box of reusable plastic eggs (the kind that are hollow and pop apart) and put some Corn Pops in some, and Froot Loops in others, and maybe two or three filled with a few Smarties or jelly beans.  On Easter morning, the children wander through the house, so very excited to find these filled eggs on windowsills and bookshelves.  They dump the contents into their little baskets, munching away happily -- because Froot Loops!!! -- and the plastic eggs quietly disappear over the next few days.

April 2011: simpler times, when I only had a two-year-old and a 10-month old at home.  (yikes)

Of course, we'd tell the kids the Bible story, too, but as they get older, the questions got so much harder to answer. A few years ago, I bought a copy of Jesus Christ Superstar, which, although it's amazing and wonderful (oh, his voice!), brings up even more questions that I am utterly ill-equipped to answer.

The traditional foods of Easter

We do a simple breakfast (hardboiled eggs that we paint then place in egg cups, with hot cross buns.  Then Chef Encraque prepares a feast resplendent with ham and potatoes, while I prepare our Easter salad.

Enough of that.  Back to the candy.

Over the years, my large assistant man-Bunny has tried to help out by acquiring the egg fillings.  Always Froot Loops, of course, but more recently, more chocolate and more candies.  And last year, it was only chocolate:  Eggies, M&Ms, chocolate eggs... You know that I'd have to be fairly desperate if I begged for jelly beans to add "balance" to Easter.



Another year, not long enough ago, Chris was away.  I was hard at work filling the eggs, but because of the Eggstreme Eggcitement of Easter Eve, the Vaughnster, who was probably 7 at the time, couldn't sleep.  He kept coming down the stairs in a panic every 15 minutes or so and telling me to go to bed, because if I didn't, the Bunny wouldn't come.  Each time I had to stop what I was doing and hide the evidence.

This started at 7:35, and continued until 11 pm, with increasing degrees of hysteria on both sides.

It is to my everlasting credit that I didn't break down and scream back at the angry, frantic, sobbing kid, "The Easter Bunny can't come yet.  And if I go to bed, he won't come at all, BECAUSE I AM THE F@#$%ING EASTER BUNNY!"

In fact, I dedicate this "Mother of the Century" award to that superhuman restraint.*

(Also, it may be time to sit the now-ten-year-old down and give him some hard truths about giant rabbits.)

But I digress.


But anyway, a few weeks ago, the whole family was out together at Costco, stocking up on canned goods and bottled water in preparation for the inevitable post-Brexit apocalypse. (kaff) And then we saw them:  giant Cadbury eggs.  Giant Cadbury Fruit & Nut eggs.  The top of the Costco warehouse opened up, a beam of light shone on the display, and a choir started singing somewhere.

Right.  We obviously couldn't buy one, because the kids were with us, and it would be tantamount to announcing that we had lied to them about the Easter Bunny for their whole lives...which would probably open up a giant can of worms that contains not only canned worms but Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy.  And tears and therapy.

So I said I'd go back and buy him one another day.

And I did, Monday.  But!  The next display over had giant Kinder Surprise eggs.**  For £13.99 each.  Now, I haven't lived in London so long that I've completely lost my mind (completely), but £14 is approximately $25 to me.  And we have three kids, who each would absolutely love a giant Kinder Surprise egg for Easter.

Note:  the night before, Fis emerged and told me that we (but mostly I) had been spending too much lately, and we (but mostly I) had to be much more careful with money.

So, I texted him, said that I saw these eggs, but that I wouldn't, in good conscience, spend $75 on Easter eggs.

He told me to do it anyway.  This is the logic of Fis.

I said, no, and stuck by it.  But, I bought him his £7.99 ($12!) Easter egg, and drove over to IKEA for meatballs, because I have to survive a(nother) two-week school break starting tomorrow. For some reason, I reached for meatballs instead of All The Wine.  (This will change as the week progresses, of course.)

In the food section, I found not only the meatballs and "gravy", but lingonberry jam (as one does), and those flat-pack chocolate bunnies!

IKEA, you brilliant bastards!

I didn't have to think.  They were reasonably priced and super fun.  So, I picked up one for each Huffling, and hopped happily out of the store, secure in the knowledge that I could serve very-easy dinners to applause and acclaim, AND put off having to tell one of the kids that they wouldn't get to go to university because I overspent on Easter chocolate.

(Hint:  it's the one(s) that kisses the dog on the mouth.)

Now all I have left to do is pick up some Froot Loops.  And jelly beans. And Creme Eggs.  And Eggies.

Sigh.

* but honestly, it was an honour just to be nominated.

** I was with a friend from Texas, who asked if we had Kinder Surprise in Canada, because they're still banned in the US.  They're considered too dangerous, because a kid once ate the toy inside and choked.  I responded with, "But you all have guns!"  We laughed and laughed.

This Magical Life

There are moments when I look around, amazed at the life I'm so lucky to live. And hours/days/weeks when I am horrified.

I don't often share our "perfect" moments (probably because there aren't many), and also, in an effort to turn the lifestyle-envy-inducing feelings that twitter and instagram and facebook propogate, I'd rather share the hilarious and real moments.

But those real moments, hilarious and absurd, are often my favourites.

Like at our wedding, waaaaay back in ought-seven.  Seated at the head table, Chris and I could barely talk above the cacophony of kazoos, which I, in my quasi-unhinged state of wedding planning, had ordered online so that our friends and families -- to prompt a kiss -- could serenade us with love songs via kazoo. Each was printed with our names and wedding date, and I had splurged on the extra-fancy "Bugle Bell" ends.

(I do hope that they are still kicking around out there... and that our friends pick them up once a year on our anniversary.  If that's not happening, don't worry, you still can:  we have a whole bag of them left over.  Call me.)

So yes, at one point, I looked over at my groom, laughing SO hard, and I said, "This is just how I pictured it."   He looked completely dazed, as if to say, you planned THIS???  Of course, it was too late for him by then.

Anyway, as I see it, it was a great investment.

***

Last September, we took a quick 2-day trip to the Isle of Wight, which was somehow missed in my "blogging about travel" schtick.  Possibly because it was wet, it was windy, and we stayed in a damp 2-star hotel with the dog.* And it was fantastic.  

#QuestionableParenting

We went down to the beach, and Chris looked at me incredulously when I said, "Go ahead and play, kids, but if you choose to go into the water, I don't want to hear you complaining later."  So, they did.  Shoes, socks and all, they chased the waves, shrieking and laughing, and Ziggy raced up and down the beach, and we were all cold and wet and windblown.  For dinner, we swept into a pub, grabbed a table, and had the best pub night ever:  we did karaoke on my phone (just the five of us), played Heads Up, and laughed and laughed.

On the way back from the pub...smiles all around!

Again, I was smart enough to step outside of myself for a moment to see the magic and truly appreciate my weirdo, bizarro family as they shimmied and sang in the booth.

***

The latest contender in my collection of weirdly magical moments occurred on the weekend.  We have a somewhat-regular lax-parenting pizza-and-playdate with friends, in which the grownups sit around and drink wine and talk, and the kids... well, we don't know what the kids do (because we're sitting around drinking wine), but there are six of them, and they never seem to want to go home, so we assume they have fun.

At some point, I turned around, and saw Chris and Ailsa standing on the coffee table, playing Just Dance.  To Fraggle Rock.**

It's another moment that stood out to me as absolutely brilliant and perfect, but one that I didn't know I had always wanted till I saw it.

It was magic.


* "2-star" is pushing it.  We couldn't bear to leave a review; the owners were so nice, but the hotel was so terrible.

** Have you ever tried to explain Fraggle Rock to someone who's never heard of it?  Go ahead and try - you can't do it without sounding like you have a serious drug problem.  

Declutter! De Clothing! De Chaos!

Decluttering makes me happy. Please don’t look at my desk.

Marie Kondo is everywhere. I mean, I haven’t (yet) watched her Netflix show or read her book(s?), but I keep hearing her name connected to the art of decluttering, and boy, does she look happy on the covers.

Even before her “revolution”, I loved decluttering more than anything else. We have (until recently) lived in homes that are small and/or low on storage, and at least one of us is a packrat…possibly four of us. When kids go to bed or husbands travel, many, many things quietly find their ways to new homes in donation bins, recycling bins, and garbage cans. And this makes me happy.

So, um, this is my desk. I am a beautiful paradox.

We had boxes that we packed for a move across Canada, that sat in our basement (unopened) for three years, moved back across Canada again, sat in our basement again, and then, when the basement flooded, were moved out to our garage. Still unopened. They sat there for four more years. I had little parties out there, reducing ten unopened-for-seven-years boxes down to six, then to three… by the time we moved to our next house, we had only two, well-edited boxes of crap that my husband wouldn’t let me throw out. I see this as a win.

I started sorting through our closets again last week to reduce the overflow, get rid of too-short or Sunday clothes (because they’re holey… get it?) and stop myself from saying “I have nothing to wear” when, in fact, every drawer is full.

This is the handy checklist I used to determine what to keep and what to get rid of:

Have you worn it in the last year? (Note: This one is optional for me. I do have to keep room for different climate- and career-based storage, as my current reality as a writer/personal trainer in London (rainy, low of -2, sweatpants) is a far cry from my senior paralegal/fitness instructor reality in Canada (hot, rainy, snowy, low of -35, suits and heels) and I am NOT going to buy all new suits and snowthings.)

Is it missing a button or needs to be hemmed?

Will you really take the time to sew on a new button or hem it?

Is it full of holes?

That weren’t put there by the designer?

Does it look worn out, faded, or cheap?

But not in a good way, I mean?

Is it so tight that you can see underwear lines through it?

What? You weren’t wearing underwear in that photo? Huh.

Did you wear the item when you were pregnant?

And is your youngest child older than five?

And you’re still wearing it? Really?

The bathing suit too? Really?

Did it fit you when you had lost 15 lbs from a combination of the flu and a really bad breakup, and you looked like a skeleton, but hasn’t fit you since, but you kept it because maybe one day you’ll be wasting away on your literal deathbed and want your hospice aide to help you wear those teeny sparkly jeans again?

Really?

My youngest has a much better, quicker method, which she explained to me clearly when she was three. My mom had knitted both girls sweaters, and the five-year-old put hers on and dashed off to play. The little one tried hers on, took it off, and said, “Give it to Carmen.” (Carmen was her best friend at daycare.)

“But,” I said to her, “Your Grandma made it especially for you! Don’t you want to wear it?”

“No,” she said. “It doesn’t make me feel happy.”

The answer to that one question, “Does it make me feel happy?” (with perhaps an exception given for my super-comfy, worn-during-three-pregnancies maternity hoodie), for all of my items-in-question, of course, is a resounding, “No.”

And that was it.

I got rid of a sizeable pile of clothing and shoes, and, while I admit that there is still an embarrassing amount left, I looked at each item, trying it on as necessary, to see if it made me feel happy. If it fit funny, pulled, gaped, squeezed, or required more-than-the-usual-amount of tummy-sucking, it was gone.

Next up: the kitchen counter, which I can’t even look at without weeping.

And don’t even ask about my desk.

Update:  I spoke to a friend about the Konmari principle (still haven't watched the show) and it IS all about keeping only what brings you delight.  Obviously, my daughter is a genius.  ~KH

Karen (Power) Hough is a writer and blogger with an Honours BSc. in Human Kinetics, and dreams about living in an IKEA showroom. Her part-time “superhero job” has been as a fitness instructor for over 20 years. She currently lives in London with her husband, three energetic kids and a codependent dog, and bores/impresses them all with stories about how she used to be a nutritionist, personal trainer and national-level fitness competitor.

Time makes you bolder, children get older...

TEN YEARS????  What happened?  

(Stevie Nicks, I'm talking to you! 

(Readers, play this clip in the background.)

First born son reaches milestone of ten years

It's been ten years since we first met this kid, and he's much bigger now. 

(He's still cranky, however)

He is almost -- almost -- as tall as I am, and that's no good. His hair still sticks up, and his smile still melts hearts. He is as challenging as he is super-smart, confident, funny and articulate. He loves Lego, music (currently into Twenty-One Pilots) and books. He's a good swimmer, is working towards his brown belt in Mo-Gei-Do, and sometimes can be persuaded to run. When it really, really matters, he is the kindest boy in the world. At all other times, he is a ten-year-old boy, especially when it comes to his sisters, for whom he has little patience.  Oh yes, and video games: he loves video games more than everything and everyone else in the world put together. 

We celebrated his actual day with dinner out, and cupcakes at home.

 Because he's ten, and smarter than us, he convinced us that he's old enough to light his own candle. I am proud of many things in my life, and one is that I managed to catch this magic on video:

A week later, he invited his best friends from school to an escape room adventure.  They were locked in with Chris until they solved the puzzle. All escaped with their lives, but just barely.

V had asked for a Lego cake, so we used the Lego minifigure mold we picked up in Denmark...but how should I decorate it? 

Aha!

Two hours to decorate, under four minutes to devour.

Cheers, little dude.  Keep it up!  

xo 

Mommy

And now she is six

Tamsin is SIX!!!  

My smallest, chubbiest, pinkest little baby is now a six-year-old.  She is tall for her age, with gangly long legs and arms, silky orange hair ("It's not red!" she insists), and pale, pale skin.  She is starting to freckle, and her dark brown eyes are sometimes serious, but usually laughing. 

Lettuce remember a few years ago:


Tamsin is imaginative and quick to joke.  She's a hard worker, and a reader like her brother and sister.  She is always twirling, singing, giggling and she's a natural runner.  She's cuddly and affectionate and loves with her whole heart. 

The morning of her birthday was rushed (we had just moved back into our flat the day before, so imagine the chaos), but she didn't mind - she opened up presents before school.

PJs?  No, Tammy Jammies!

We really have to stop letting the kids pick their own dinner venues.  We ate at McDonalds, then rushed home for cupcakes.

The following weekend, we held her party at a local leisure centre and invited lots of kids to run around like maniacs with balloons.  There were a few...um... hiccups with planning and preparation, which resulted in pin-the-tail-on-the-unicorn participants being blindfolded with toilet paper, and the candles being misplaced, so having to use an LED candle and our imaginations to make her wish come true. 

The birthday party - kids, balloons, and unicorns everywhere.

The gang - there was no shot that showed Tamsin's face!

A tired but happy girl snuggles into bed.

Keep growing, sweetheart!  You are amazing!

xo
Mommy