Well, it's July.
Happy belated 4th of July to my American counterparts! I managed to herd the entire family to church yesterday and I was no sooner in the door when Josie (who has a relation who jumped the pond in the opposite direction back during the wars) grabbed me by the hand and dragged me to the social hall.
"You have to see this," she said conspiratorially. "There's ANOTHER American here!"
And sure enough there was. I met Scott who was here visiting his girlfriend. I want to say that he's from Missouri. I know it's the Midwest and I'm pretty sure he said St Louis. I remember thinking that it was odd that he identified himself by his city rather than his state. Then again, it makes sense. He knew that he was talking to a fellow countryman who would probably at least recognise his city. If I told people that I was from Reading, they'd think I was just confused. (Since the *original* Reading is not that far from here.)
"How long have you been here?" He asks politely.
"Almost five years," I answer as my stomach lurches and my brain redoes the math again. Has it really been that long?
"Ah." He says. "That explains why you're losing your accent."
Losing my accent!? Well, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised since I've always said that I don't have an accent. It's everyone else that does. Or maybe he expects all the the United States to have the same soft Midwestern twang that strums through his syllables.
Anyhow.... we wished each other a happy 4th of July and launched into the Star-Spangled Banner much to the delight of those around us and dissolved into a fit of giggles before we got very far. (Thank goodness.... there was NO way I was going to manage the upper range today.... or most days!) His girlfriend proudly told us that he had been served pancakes for breakfast.
Pancakes?
This immediately fired up the imagination of those around us. You must remember that the Tuesday before Ash Wednesday is known as Pancake Day here.... and in case I didn't tell you, British pancakes are nothing like American pancakes.
"Is this a tradition," asked Carol. Carol is my sister in baking and is always quick to point out how much she loves mine. "Our Chip is quite the baker," she says to them as she takes my hand and squeezes it. She goes on to recount the most recent cake that I had brought to the PCC half-day gathering just the Saturday before. "Pumpkin cake with cranberries and chocolate chip and this lovely gooey cream cheese icing...."
I fear I may have to get her a napkin.
But we return to the topic of pancakes.
"Did she make you proper pancakes?" I look to Scott and arch an eyebrow knowingly.
"Proper pancakes?" Carol pounces on the culinary mystery like a cat who has rediscovered a catnip mouse long forgotten.
"Yes," Scott's girlfriend answers eagerly. "With buttermilk and everything."
I notice Scott looking a bit puzzled. "You have to understand," I explain to him. "When my husband told me that he was making pancakes, what I got was something more like a crepe. Think thin... like a tortilla."
Scott has the good sense to look horriifed.
"What is an American pancake," Carol asks eager for information.
"They're fluffy." I hold my fingers apart to the appropriate and approximate thickness. "And you spread them thick with butter and drown them in maple syrup. None of this sprinkle with lemon juice and icing sugar." (Translation: Powdered sugar.)
I can see her mind racing. Plotting. Planning.
"I know what you're up to," I warn her.
She smiles that bright warm smile that makes people around her feel so at ease and at home. It is that same bright and geniune smile that I remember shining from my own Grandmother and some of the older generation at Rosedale when I was young.
"Can you blame me?" She giggles. "How DOES one get an invitation to breakfast at your house?"
I don't ruin her fantasy by telling her that breakfast at my house is not usually pancakes and crispy bacon. It's usually cold cereal or toast or eggs and toast.
Before I am summoned to another area of the church, I express my pleasure in meeting him and tell him that if he found himself living on this side of the Atlantic, we could start a club.
As I mentioned before... it's July.
Kate has three weeks of school left until Summer break. 15 days of school and counting.
She is... exhausted!
With the summer days upon us the sun starts peeking through the curtains (who am I kidding... there is no peeking about it.... it's a freight train of light pouring into the room) at about 5am. No matter that her shades are down, she's up with the birdies. Going to bed is no easier. Though I put her into bed by 8pm, some nights she is up until 9:30 or 10:00 just hanging out in her room, unable to sleep and not quite understanding why she has to.
"But Mum!" She tries to explain. "It's still light out!"
This makes for a VERY tired child when I go to get her at school. Tired and GRUMPY!
Most afternoon journeys involve her trying to pick a fight with me about any bit of nonsense that she can find. It usually involves her asking for something or asking to do something and me using the dreaded "No" word. This is followed by a period of stomping and ranting or whining on her part and me just kind of tuning her out until she can get home and get a snack and chill out for a bit.
Usually, she comes back to my cheerful child. Sometimes, she doesn't quite make it.
I try to be patient. I know where the behaviour is coming from and at the moment I don't have a solution for it. (Blackout blinds are on their way.... keep your fingers crossed.)
One afternoon, she got all her markers out and was happily colouring. No problem there.
When she had finished, she simply walked away from them. Slight problem there.
"Kate," I reminded her. "Don't forget to pick up your markers."
"No," she said defiantly. "I don't want to."
"No problem," I replied breezily. "I'll just throw them away then you don't have to worry about them."
"Can you help me?"
I've been down this road before. Her version of me helping is for me to do it while she supervises. Well, not today Madame. "No." I said firmly. "I didn't get them out. I didn't use them. I'm getting dinner ready. Now, please pick up your markers or I'm going to get cross."
"I'm tired. I need a nap."
Ooooo... she's not tried that piece of manipulation for quite some time. She's figuring I know she's tired and will dismiss her to her room where she can play without having to actually clean up.
"Well, clean up your markers and then you can go up and take a nap." I was cool and calm.
"Fine!" She flounced down and started picking up the markers. "I don't know why I have to do EVERYTHING!"
And now every hair on the back of my neck stood up and there was definitely an edge to my voice.
"Everything?" I questioned. "I'm sorry.... do you do the dishes? Make dinner? Do the laundry?"
"No," she said with a small voice.
"Should I expect that you will be doing these things soon? Because then I can sit and colour while you make the dinner."
Silence.
Then. "But Mum... I'm just a child. I'm not allowed to use the stove." Before I can reply she's dissolved into tears and is sobbing "I'm sorry."
She's actually a really helpful kid most of the time. I can't say enough about how eager she is to help me and is always asking if there is something she can do. It's just the curse of having a nice summer. If it was a normal English summer there would be cloudy, overcast mornings that wouldn't light the world up with a high-powered torch (translation: flashlight) and she would probably get more sleep.
So, this is the behaviour I have to deal with at the moment.
Now, there are a few people here who have watched the American series "The Gilmour Girls." The series is shown quite frequently on one of the channels during the afternoon and it is one of those things that I sit down and watch when I'm feeling a bit... homesick.
Jeff tries to ban me from watching it on occasion because he claims it is going to give me unrealistic expectations on what my relationship with Kate is going to be like.
Well, to quote one of my "Gilmour Girl Groupies." Last week, I would have made Lorelei Gilmore VERY proud.
It was afternoon.... again.
I was picking Kate up from school.... again.
And she was GRUM-PEE..... again.
It was someone's birthday in the class and they handed out candy as the kids left. As Kate thrust her bookbag, lunch box, and candy bar at me, I noted that it was coconut and that she... probably wouldn't like it. I shoved it into her lunch box and remained silent... for now.
It was hot.
And so we started the walk home. (It's not that far, honest... it just feels like it when your companion's mood would make Blackbeard the pirate look like Little Mary Sunshine.)
"Mum," she asked (and I use that term loosely) "I want to eat my candy bar."
"Not right now, Kate," I explained while putting on my "Give me Patience" hat. "It's too hot. I don't want you to get chocolate all over yourself. You can have it when we get home."
"No!" She exclaimed in that voice that tells me that there is no reasoning with her and I'm probably going to have to play the "because I'm the Mom" card today. "I want to eat it NOW!"
"I said no." I calmly asserted.
"I'm hungry! I'm GOING to eat something NOW!"
"Well, what are you going to do? Start chewing on that tree over there? Because I'm not opening up this lunch box."
Stomp stomp stomp.
"Fine! I'm moving out!"
And time stood still for a moment while my mind processed the absurdity of that statement.
Still, I'm not even ruffled. With a perfectly reasonable tone of voice, I replied to her. "That's fine. Just let me know where you move to so that I can send your toys I wouldn't want you to be without Ellie."
There was.... stunned silence.
Less stomping.
A minute or so went by and she tried again.
"I'm moving out and you're going to be sooooo sad and I'm going to be mad because I'm going to be sad!"
I clucked my tongue gently in a compassionate manner. "I'm sorry to hear that. Just make sure I know where you are so I can pack all your animals and mail them to you. You might feel better then."
5.....4......3.......2.....1.......
"THIS ISN'T THE WAY IT'S SUPPOSED TO BE HAPPENING.!!!"
Poor thing. It's what happens when you try to out drama a Drama Queen... though she definitely has a Drama Princess Tiara.
I didn't say much (if anything) the rest of the way home and by the time we got to the door, she worked herself up into a right state. She was sobbing and crying. "Mum..... I'm going to be so sad because I'm never going to see you again!"
"Don't be silly," I told her as I ruffled her hair. "No one said you HAVE to move out, that's your choice. I don't WANT you to go. You can stay if you like." I unlocked the doors and ushered her inside. "Now go get changed and I'll make your snack."
I unpacked her lunch leftovers and arranged them on a plate, unwrapping the troublesome candy bar and placing it on the side.
"Mmmm...." she said as she practically skipped into the kitchen. "Is that the candy bar?"
"Yes, it is," I told her. "But I don't think you'll like it."
"I like it!" She said with the same conviction that she uses when she asserts that she likes High School Musical eventhough she has NEVER seen it.
"If you say so," I smiled as she took the bar and nibbled the tiniest bit of the chocolate coating off of it. A mouse would have done more damage to the smooth surface.
"Mmm! I like it!" She reasserted.
"Kate." I said knowingly. "You only ate the chocolate, you haven't eaten the coconut yet."
"Do I like coconut?" She looked puzzled.
"No, I don't think you will," I told her. "But try it." She has surprised me before. In fact, most of her toddler years were a surprise to me when it came to food. I should be prepared for her to actually like it.
A small bit of the white inside was consumed.
"Well?" I asked.
"I like it," she said triumphantly.... but there is something in her voice that tells me otherwise.
"Okay, go on upstairs. I'll be up in a bit." She wanted to play some of her Zoo Tycoon computer game today and so she went up to get started while I did some dinner prep. Eventually, I wandered up and she was playing happily. The plate beside her was empty.... except for a not quite half-eaten candy bar.
I said nothing.
"Mum," she said as I passed by her. "I'm really full. Can you eat the rest of the candy bar for me?"
I chuckled knowingly.
"What?!" She exclaimed a bit TOO forcefully. "I am REALLY full."
"Of course, you are, dear." I sat at my desk and sighed. I hadn't expected it to start quite so soon. I thought I still had a few years left before we entered this phase of our relationship. A few more years before I was always wrong and didn't know anything. I certainly hadn't expected the lengths that she would go to so that she would not have to admit that I was right.
Maybe there's still hope. Maybe she and I will breeze through her teenage years with me being the firm and witty mom who doesn't miss a trick and has a daughter who doesn't try to use them. Every episode of drama in our lives will end with a hug and laughter. Maybe it's just the side-effects of a tired little girl who is straining for the summer term to end so that she can run wild for a bit, stretch her legs and her imagination and go where ever her mind can take her.
Or... maybe I should start looking into convent schools NOW.
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