Rediscovering Neil Young

(or the album I knew in college anyway)

It's funny -- this morning, while listening to Neil Young's Greatest Hits, I said to Mark, "This album makes me want to get drunk," and he replied, "Or get laid." And it struck me as ironic at the time, though I couldn't put my finger on why. Of course now I know why: I used to get laid to this album all the time. As I cleaned my whole house and listened to it, I realized I knew almost every word to every song, though I don't think I've heard many of those songs in ages -- that's how often I "listened" to it in college.

And you know what? I don't regret it. I don't feel guilty that I have experiences with someone other than my husband, and I no longer regret the most destructive relationship I ever had. Not only do I feel like I learned from my experiences and that I garnered many friends I still have from that particular relationship, but I also feel really proud of who I've become as a result. I never again could date someone who didn't seriously appreciate music. I had a lot of fun. And honestly, because of that relationship, I was able to have Vaughn, thus my most adoring and loving husband, and thus this second baby on the way. How could I ever regret something that so completely brought me to where I am today?

I do feel badly for CA. I think that, 8 years later, he must regret the way things unfolded and he must wish he'd handled things differently. Maybe I'm wrong but since I feel that I was on the receiving end of that situation, I don't feel as guilty as he might.

I don't even feel old, having come to these conclusions. I feel so young ... I feel so capable of finding new music and appreciating it and were I not pregnant, I'd probably break open the bourbon, since it's raining anyway and our afternoon activity will likely be watching The Little Mermaid. I feel like I can make new experiences and appreciate them more with someone who loves me so much constantly by my side.

God bless mistakes. And God bless heartache that eventually allows so much joy. And sure, God bless Neil Young. He's a fantastic musician.

Who is this stranger living in my house?

My child speaks with a British accent ... almost. She says things like, "STRAW-brees," and, "shopping trolley," and, "lift." She inflects her voice like a Brit, which luckily is much like an eastern North Carolina accent anyway, but even that is frightening. Mark and I have both managed to come away practically unscathed, accent-wise, from our periods of time both in the south and the northeast. Not that I mind having a Texas accent when I speak with my mother, but I'm just pointing out fact. Still, who is this child? Will it go away when we return to the U.S.?

And will I start speaking like a normal person as well? I've just begun training myself to say, "It's meant to ..." rather than, "It's supposed to ..." and I'll probably sound like such a freak saying such phrases upon immigration to America. That's another thing: calling it "America," as most Americans do, rather than "the U.S." or "the States." Jeezy Creezy. For all my cultural longing, there is going to be a lot of culture shock upon returning to American soil ... assuming that's where we're going this summer.

Overheard in Isleworth

British mum: "I have a problem getting the laundry sorted."
American mom: "I've come up with a solution for that. I do all my loads, maybe seven, on Mondays, and then I usually get around to folding them by around dinner time. Then --"
BM: "You hide it?"
AM: [cackling wildly to herself]
BM: (seriously) "No?"
AM: "No! That's hysterical, but no! I get my husband to take it upstairs."
BM: [cackling to herself]

Too many captains, not enough soldiers

Isn't that the saying? That's totally what it's like when you're pregnant and have a toddler, only in the reverse ... too many soldiers, no captains. It's like we both want to throw fits, we both lose our patience, we both need things to go our way absolutely all of the time -- only there's just enough time and energy for one person to actually indulge in all those things. And guess who it is most of the time. Yeah, not I. *sigh* I'm so "done" with trying to find new things for Vaughn to eat, with trying to entertain her, with keeping her happy. All I want to do is lie down when I'm tired, eat when I'm hungry (can't do this because if she refused her snack then it's just not worth it to go through the turmoil and lack of comprehension regarding why Mommy is eating and she isn't) and do a crossword puzzle when I feel like exercising my brain. The only way I'm able to post right now is that I put in a DVD for her. And God, what has this world come to that I think that is a reasonable option? And where's the peach cobbler?

Have I mentioned the pee pitcher?

So first it's important to understand how bad of a sleeper I am. I am the worst I know, by far. I can count on one hand the number of times in my life I remember sleeping through the night. I have made such enormous debacles about quiet sleeping environments to boyfriends' families, my husband's family and friends that it's nothing short of entirely embarrassing. When I'm not pregnant, I get up to pee at least once in the night. It also takes me on average about 45 minutes to fall asleep and if I am unfortunate enough to wake up after 5am, it's unlikely that I will go back to sleep, even if I didn't go to sleep until 4. Yeah. It blows.

That said, when you're pregnant you pee even more and you get up even more in the night to try to get it out. I have gotten up as many as six times but I'd say I am at about 3 times a night right now. But here's the clencher: we don't have a bathroom upstairs, where all the bedrooms are. Welcome to 1896, when this house was built, in contrast to the modern bathroom movement in England, which I swear was sometime in the 1960s. That's really not an exaggeration. Yes, some houses are modern enough to have bathrooms fitted on the upper floors, but not this one. And I am not the only person on my street with this issue.

So ... horrible night sleeping + no bathroom upstairs = I pee in a (former) lemonade pitcher at night, which I keep next to my bed. Yes, this is gross, but yes, I also believe this is the best remedy to the situation. Mark is continually dumbfounded in the morning that I have peed a quart in the night and sometimes he remarks on the color. One of the grossest things about this situation is that I have to take the pitcher downstairs every morning to empty it, as of course there are no water receptacles upstairs. I have yet to spill the pitcher but I must emphasize the word yet.

This is my life. I am homesick.

Sunshine

This has become Vaughn's favorite word. Every time we walk in it or see it from across the street (ah, those Victorian row houses) she says, "Sunshine!" Of course now that we've got it, it's NCAA tournament time, and all I want to do is sit at home and watch basketball. Oh, the irony. Also, I'm suddenly going to have to start watering the plants in the back garden if I don't want them to die before the landlords move back in. So my SAD is gone but my responsibilities are dramatically changed. Dagnabbit. Now I'm being a horrible mom so that I can indulge my one lasting craving from my Old Life.

But at this very moment I'm letting Vaughn watch Nemo for the zillionth time during the first half of the first two games. So I'm sacrificing, right?

F@#%!

So I've been counting down. So I've been looking forward to this triumphal (and by triumphal I really just mean "at long last") return to the U.S. Probably Durham, maybe Austin, possibly somewhere else. But in talks with Mark I realize now that he wants to stay here. Or at best, stay abroad. We're discussing Sydney and Barcelona. I'm trying to stay positive about both. But as I realize we're just putting off our lives another two years, and as I miss all my food and entertainment cravings (March madness is almost upon us), I don't know what the hell is going on or how I've been talked into this.

BUT I really don't have to be talked into anything. I don't work. I don't pay the bills. I merely ignore the children all day and get depressed every now and then. My opinion counts, I know, but in the end it's not I who has to go to work to make our lives possible. And putting off reality another two years honestly isn't going to hurt us financially.

Still, I want to go home. I really do. I don't know what it will take to make this staying abroad business acceptable to me, but whatever it is must be more than I can bear because I can't imagine all my stipulations for living in a place like Sydney, where it takes almost an entire day to get home to Texas. Sheesh.

New mantras: I love paella. And I can always go walkabout.