Happy Highlights

It has been a happy fortnight for various reasons.  At the risk of sounding smug, I hope you will forgive me for scribbling down some of the highlights.

Belt and Braces 

Early in 2016, a few months after arriving in America, I went for what I assumed was a routine dental check up.  My new American dentist took one look in my mouth and was aghast at my crooked, crowded teeth, receding gums and deep bite.  Something would have to be done.

Orthodontics is a multi billion dollar industry in North America and Canada and I wondered if my dentist was just trying to make a quick buck.  I  sought the opinions of five orthodontists just to be safe and they were unanimous – the gnashers needed attention.  So in May 2016, I took the plunge and had metal train tracks fitted to my top and bottom teeth.

The whole thing was a thoroughly irksome experience, with 18 months of discomfort ensuing.  My mouth was stuffed with paraphernalia and became home to a two metal tracks, numerous rubber bands, a couple of solid balls (glued behind my front teeth) and lumps of pink cement, which were packed into my molars. The braces continually grated my mouth until it bled and caused angry raw sores to develop. To add insult to injury, the skin around my mouth became angry and raw – not a pretty sight.

After 18 months of this vexation, I had had enough.  Marching into an appointment with my Taiwanese orthodontist the other day, I confidently asserted: So, Dr Su – I think today’s the day! And, miraculously, Dr Su agreed.

I cannot express my delight at no longer being a metal mouth. Here I am celebrating with Dr Su. Perhaps not the perfect American smile – my teeth aren’t nearly white enough – we’ll need to fork out a few more hundred dollars for that – but better than before for sure.

 

 

Surprise! 

Izzy summoned me to our friend Jade’s house the other Thursday.  It was two days before my 40th birthday and I had an inkling that perhaps some of my girlfriends might have been invited over for lunch.  They had.

 

 

What I didn’t know was that my much loved friend Charlotte, who left Rye in the summer, had flown over from London as a surprise.  She sprang out of the woodwork and we had a highly excitable and emotional reunion in the kitchen.  There aren’t many words that can accurately sum up the feeling of having my buddy back in the bosom again.  Charlotte then spent a week in Rye which was pure magic.  It was as if she’d never left.

 

 

Jade laid on an amazing birthday feast and it all felt most decadent loafing around with such lovely friends on a Thursday.  I never do lunch here in Rye – the briefest of child free windows afforded by the scant preschool sessions tend to get consumed by errands or housework.

 

Just look at my Irish friend Fiona who can barely contain herself at being presented with an M&S mince pie which Charlotte shipped over from the UK.

 

 

Family Glee 

That night, my sister Polly,  brother in law Tim and babies Hector and Juno arrived to stay.  So exciting.  The travellers were amazingly chipper after their long haul flight and taxi journey from Newark airport and wasted no time in getting straight into the mix. Tim went to work in New York City the following day, while Polly and I drove upstate to Rockefeller State Park Preserve for a good old fashioned American hike with my new friend Emily and her three boys.

 

 

The fall colours haven’t been quite as spectacular this year as they were in 2016 – the summer was very dry and a storm the other weekend seemed to strip many trees naked overnight, but we did get a bit of a chance to leaf peep during our morning at Rockefeller.

 

 

The following day was a Saturday and my 40th birthday.  40? I thought as I came to under the duvet that morning.  As far as I’m concerned I still feel 23.  How can it be that I am suddenly halfway to 80?

It was a blissful winter’s day – crispy cold and bright.  I assured everyone that a morning trip to the rustic and wholesome Muscoot Farm half an hour’s drive away would be a good idea.  Just what my poor jet lagged sister and family wouldn’t have felt like and my boys looked unconvinced, but who were they to refuse the birthday girl?

 

 

With five month old Juno strapped to Polly’s chest, my sister and I set forth along the farm’s trails, discovering, to my delight, some actual fields, rare in these parts.  We could have been in Northumberland.

 

 

The boys bumped along in a trailer behind a John Deere tractor and squealed with delight at the farm animals.  They particularly enjoyed the hairy heavyweight pigs, snoring riotously, their hefty bulks spilling over their beds of straw. Muscoot Farm is a delight – the animals clearly get five star treatment and you leave feeling like you’ve been transported back to a farm in the early 1900s.

 

Party time 

Henry disappeared after lunch.  Something was afoot but I was not allowed to know what.  Other than instructing me to kit myself out in 80s gear that evening, my husband was giving nothing away.

For months Henry had been asking me what I wanted to do for my 40th. Nothing! I would wail, thinking, self-indulgently: What’s the point when my nearest and dearest are in another country and some of my best friends have just left? But Henry was insistent – we would celebrate and he would take care of it.

And so it was that I decked myself out in a rainbow of neon colours, a bum bag (fanny pack in American), mullet wig and sweat band.  Polly and Tim, Henry and I assembled in front of the sitting room fire to whoops of delight from our babysitter Sandra.

 

 

Sandra couldn’t understand where the children were. She had arrived at 7:30 pm expecting to put all four of them to bed.  American children seem to stay up much later than British ones so are usually rampaging around when babysitters arrive.  But ours were abed.  Other than some slight whimpering emanating from the boys’ room (Rory was complaining about our going out, or perhaps he was just frightened by the sight of his new parents), all was quiet.

We piled into the Jeep and drove a few minutes down the road to our friends Izzy and Alex’s house, where the saintly Leslies were preparing to host a sumptuous evening.

A bar had been set up in the kitchen.  The trusty Medina, who works for the Leslies, was enthusiastically mixing Moscow Mules.  Henry, bearing a striking resemblance to that great 80s icon Pat Sharp, joined her, resplendent in his long mousey mullet and graffiti tracksuit.

 

 

Moments later, who should appear but our good friend and neighbour Derek, dressed identically to Henry and with a bonus bum bag to boot.

 

 

Henry had been careful not to specify 80s Fancy Dress on the invitation, as to Americans this means to dress in one’s fanciest clothes.  The array of outfits was impressive.  There’s so much scope when interpreting an 80s dress code and I realised I had been rather one dimensional in my approach.

Derek’s wife Claire resembled a naughty librarian in a pie frill collar and blazer and large round glasses.  Charlotte was sporting a lavish perm, apparently not unlike the one she used to have back in the day.

 

 

Boy George and his female companion appeared through the glittery curtains and for some time I had no idea who they were, genuinely wondering for a moment whether Henry had been on to Rentacrowd.

 

 

There were two Axel Roses and three Slashes and characters from Miami Vice, Dynasty, Die Hard and ET.

 

Our friend Nick had been all set to attend as Maverick from Top Gun, when his Amazon order failed to arrive and he had to refashion himself into Super Mario at the last minute.

 

 

 

It emerged over the course of the evening that this terrific party was the result of a phenomenal team effort.  The Leslies laid on the most magnificent party venue.  Henry rallied the troops and ordered truckloads of booze.  Claire had presided over some fabulous decorations and party props including zebra print helium balloons, inflatable guitars and microphones.  Framed pictures of me (some of which I’d never clapped eyes on before) were dotted around the house.  In one I resembled a Gremlin in a bridesmaid dress; in another I was looking truly miserable, as well I might, dolled up in a curious ensemble of polo neck, swathes of pale pink nylon and some clumpy buckled shoes.

Antonia and Sarah produced vast quantities of eats, Izzy whipped up industrial sized shepherds pies, Fiona made an amazing, mountainous Black Forest Gateau and Emma two different roulades.

 

 

The whole evening was exceptional, so fun and memorable and somewhat surreal given that I hadn’t lifted a finger.  I felt truly humbled and, fuelled by Moscow Mules and pumped by Henry’s 80s playlist, decided to pipe up with an impromptu speech.  None of my words came out quite how I wanted them to, but there were so many people I needed to thank that I couldn’t not say something.

By 1:30 am, most of the party had wound down, although Boy George and his sidekick were showing signs that they were just warming up and keen to push on through until dawn.  Eventually we had to turf the last of the stragglers out to allow Izzy to hit the hay.

 

 

The following day, after not nearly enough sleep, we blew away the cobwebs with a bracing walk around one of our favourite local spots, Greenwich Point Park.  Located on a peninsula on Long Island Sound, the Manhattan skyline is visible from the Point on a clear day.

It was an icy cold day for a wedding photo shoot and the sight of this bride in the biting wind sent chills right through me.

 

 

On Sunday night, the house was comfortingly full.  There’s nothing like hosting family and good friends when you’re living abroad and that night I was lucky enough to have my sister and family and my old Rye buddy Charlotte staying.  After a supper of roast chicken and tucking the children up, it was time for present opening in front of a roaring fire.

Overwhelming in so many respects, it was an altogether amazing 40th birthday weekend.

But all too fast, it was time for our visitors to head for home.  The problem with living abroad is that long awaited visits come and go in a flash.  Inevitably, as soon as our visitors vanish, I find myself having pangs that I didn’t make the most of every moment I had with them.  But what these visits do always do, however, is to make one immensely grateful for one’s nearest and dearest, wherever they may be in the world.

 

 

It feels like a fitting time for Thanksgiving, which is this Thursday.  The Thanksgiving holiday is held in America on the fourth Thursday in November and marks a harvest festival celebrated by the Pilgrims in 1621.

The air in Rye is alive this week with people wishing one another a Happy Thanksgiving!  The supermarkets are alive with Americans loading up with turkeys and pumpkin pies.  I quizzed a mother at nursery about some of the dishes that tend to accompany the turkey to the table.  Favorites apparently include cheese grits, corn bread, green bean casserole, and, bizarrely, sweet potato laced with sugar, cream and marshmallows.

I opened my email inbox yesterday to be greeted with this effusive Thanksgiving message from Rory’s nursery teacher:

Heartfelt gratitude your way for allowing me to foster your child’s learning. May your table be surrounded by those you love.

Have a blessed Thanksgiving.

Attached is the newsletter.  Please note that there is no school on Wednesday, Thursday or Friday. (Note: yet again…another truncated week for the children).

Enjoy your babies (Note: any child of preschool age qualifies as a baby). 

Peace. 

 

Candies and Cavities

Candies

Halloween was, as expected, a high octane affair.  The children awoke early, buzzing with excitement.  I was dreaming of bedtime, when it would all be over.

I took Rory into nursery, where we were greeted by his teacher, aka Wonder Woman, squaring up to a mini Captain America.

 

 

The classmates were in high spirits and bounced around the classroom in their outfits.  My little Buzz Lightyear, however, was less enthusiastic and is pictured below looking long in the face.  Perhaps the choice of costume had been a mistake – I had picked it up for a couple of dollars a few days earlier at a thrift sale.  Rory has never seen the film Toy Story and was bemused by the enthusiastic greetings of To infinity and beyond! delivered by everyone we passed.   

 

 

When the time came to head out into the bright sunshine for the Halloween parade, Buzz Lightyear lost it.  The whole fanfare was all too much and he clung tightly to me like a limpet.  After a lot of tears, he was prised away from my legs and sent off to his class party, which, of course, he loved.

 

 

As I drove home at around 1 o’clock, I had to stop the car to marvel at the latest inhabitant on our street.  Standing at around eight feet tall on its hind legs, with menacing green eyes and snarling yellow teeth was a frighteningly realistic, moving, howling werewolf.

 

 

Inhaling the quickest of lunches (I was running late, but can never miss a meal), I raced over to help set up the Halloween block party, which was being hosted by the other Fiona on the street, also a mother of two boys.  There wasn’t a lot to do other than tape pumpkin tablecloths to a few trestle tables.  I took note of the vast cauldron of candy which Fiona had prepared in readiness for the trick or treaters who’d be descending later.

 

 

Glancing at my watch, I saw that I was late again.  I had missed Barnaby’s Halloween party but could just about make his parade if I hurried.

I couldn’t get close to school in the Jeep – every last street parking spot within half a mile of the school was taken.  There followed a hairy few minutes, during which I had to painstakingly dislodge the car after unwittingly wedging it between two monstrous SUVs.  Frustrated, I then illegally drove the wrong way down the one way street outside school, before illegally parking in the school parking lot.

I passed another latecomer, a dad in a black suit festooned with neon orange pumpkins, then bumped into Elvis.

 

There was the usual eclectic selection of costumes on display.  Inflatables proved to be popular this year, with a blow up panda and a bulky blue man being among the first to arrive.

 

 

The much loved school nurse was resplendent as Piglet, beside a teacher dressed as a Dunkin Donuts worker.

 

 

We were able to recycle last year’s Stormtrooper outfit for Barnaby, which was handy.

 

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Then it was home again for the quickest of turnarounds before the Halloween block party, which was a thoroughly jovial event held in front of the garage of our neighbours’ house.  I had forgotten the extent to which American adults embrace Halloween.  Numerous neighbours had really gone to town with their costumes.

 

 

I have lived opposite Ginger for two years, but spent about 10 minutes looking straight through her, as I had no idea who she was.  She had come as the villainous Disney character Maleficent.  From which movie, I didn’t ask.  Living in America and having two children I should know these things, shouldn’t I?

Adult mummies and rotund pumpkins rubbed shoulders with Minions, cowboys , pirates, sharks, dinosaurs and superheroes.  There was pizza, of course, pumpkin flavoured beer, nachos with dips and a great sense of community.

At 5:30 pm, just as the light was beginning to fade, the parade began.  The children, led by Stormtrooper Barnaby, galloped to our house to begin the long process of confection collection.  Most fathers on the street seemed to have been able to leave work in the middle of the afternoon, allowing families to leave one parent policing the amount of candy the trick or treaters were collecting.  Henry was in a meeting in the city, which left me unsuccessfully attempting to enforce a limit on our doorstep.

 

 

We were going to have hours of trick or treaters descending on us so I didn’t want the lot to vanish instantly.  I did manage to back claw a few treats from the little wide eyed sweetie stalkers, before setting forth around the block for what turned out to be an excellent couple of hours.  The whole concept of trick or treating remains alien to me although even I had to admit that it was a sweet and calm affair, not the out of control horror I had feared.

It was more or less a replica of last year – Barnaby deserted his mother and brother at the earliest opportunity and found his adoptive carers in the form of the Ross family.  Susan and Jeffrey Ross already have three boys, but capably took on a fourth.  Rory and I teamed up with our friend Derek and his daughter Seren, which made the whole jaunt most civilised.

 

 

We were introduced to a few unfamiliar confections including a chocolate bar called Baby Ruth and some unfeasibly large boiled lollipops filled with bubble gum.  Derek and his wife Claire were, very cleverly, I thought, offering glo-sticks and rubber stamps, which seemed to surprise the young candy-cravers.

Later that night, Henry rifled through the boys’ vast sweetie hauls.  He siphoned off a load of sweets, emptying them into what the Americans call zip lock baggies, which I deposited in a donation bin at Barn’s school the following day.  Such a good idea – the children end up with far more treats than they need, so the school sends off packages to US troops serving overseas.

Two days later, Rory went to a chocolate making party at Chocolations, an artisan chocolate factory down the road.  Interesting choice of party venue in Halloween week, I thought, slightly testily.

The children ladled melted chocolate into small trays, before adorning their creations with candy – including those candy corn things.

 

 

When it came to creating a ‘meatball’ cupcake, Rory slightly freaked out.  He didn’t like the idea of this at all.  His buddy Ben, however, embraced the task with gusto.

 

 

Cavities

All this talk of candies brings me on to the subject of cavities.  I took Barnaby to the dentist for a check up the other day, fully expecting my seven year old to be given a clean bill of dental health, but was appalled to be told that he had a cavity.  Many American treats are off limits owing to his fructose intolerance and the liberal use of the horrid high fructose corn syrup in food.  I was genuinely shocked.  The dentist told me that it is not so much candies that are to blame but carbs, which get broken down into sugars that slowly eat into teeth.

A filling was needed.  But on no account would the dentist be doing this herself, she told me.  That unenviable task would be reserved for the pediatric dentist, Dr Chu.

Before the filling could be administered, Barnaby and I were invited to spend an hour and a half at a meet and greet session with Dr Chu.  This seemed rather unnecessary, until it emerged that Dr Chu is something of an expert when it comes to befriending children and carrying out unpleasant procedures without the children having any idea of what it is that he’s doing.

Dr Chu’s practice was stuffed with soft toys with grotesque toothy grins, which visiting children are instructed to clean with giant toothbrushes.

 

 

I completed a detailed questionnaire, most of which seemed to relate to Barnaby’s interests.  Moments later my boy and I were transferred to Dr Chu’s office, which was packed from floor to ceiling with Star Wars, Lego and Minecraft memorabilia.  Barn was impressed.

Dr Chu soothed my horror about the hole by explaining that Barnaby’s molars are tightly packed, which makes it hard to clean between teeth. Apparently I should be flossing his teeth daily and cleaning them for two minutes at a stretch, obviously neither of which I have been doing.  I was told to make no mention to Barnaby of any forthcoming filling, and, after this lengthy meet and greet session, we were sent home.

Two days later, Barnaby couldn’t wait to return to Dr Chu.  We reported to the front desk, where the receptionist was sporting the longest talons I had ever seen.  She had obviously forgotten to remove her Halloween accessories.

 

 

The talons handed over Barnaby’s treatment plan.  All $1000+ of it.  She expressed surprise when I questioned this figure.  Our insurance company would cover a proportion of the treatment, but we would be responsible for the non-negotiable laughing gas and four fillings.  Four?  I had been told he’d need one.  Dr Chu subsequently apologised and said actually that two fillings on two neighbouring molars would be fine.

Are these dentists just trying to make a quick buck? I wondered.  Flashback to my friend Izzy’s first trip to an American dentist last year.  Back in the UK just before moving to the US, Izzy had a filling free mouth, but moved here and was told by a dentist that she needed 11 fillings…

But I have to say a big well done to Dr Chu.  Thanks to some clever distraction techniques including a screening of Star Wars and brushing Barn’s gums while the needle was inserted, Barnaby had no idea that he was having fillings done.

I have since bought an industrial sack of children’s flossers for the boys and might even start on my own teeth soon.