High School Musical

Last night, I took my two little girls to see Disney's Beauty & the Beast performed at my old high school. Though the Spring musical was held in the exact same fine arts building I used to perform in as a high schooler, the auditorium has been completely renovated since fifteen years ago into a genuinely exquisite theater.

My daughters and I, along with Devon and Liz, my two best buds from high school, and Devon's daughter, drove into the same parking lot I used to park in and walked the same footsteps I used to walk everyday into the building I spent my teenage life in.

The foyer is nothing like it was years ago, when the dingy carpets were brown and the three long steps crossing the foyer taking you up to the auditorium doors were perfect for sitting on to do homework or having gossip sessions, and the "box office" was just a folding table decorated with a plastic tablecloth. Now, there are real box office booths with glass windows for ticketing, and the building's structure is entirely different. Inside the auditorium, there is still the same incredibly large black stage with possibly the same red curtains, but the seats are now separated with aisles and rather than a couple of speakers and a light/sound board in the back row shut off with plywood walls, the sound booth is now a fully equipped media room in the balcony.

Despite looking so different, I was taken back years ago (when the budget was obviously not so generous), to the countless hours I spent practicing on that stage, watching performances in those seats, hall talks in those corridors and even a tornado warning lined up against those walls with books over our heads acting as very dubious protection should the roof by blown off.

My children, of course, did not have the same flood of memories. They ran around excited through the aisles to the seats we pointed them towards. Confusion and indecision broke out about who was sitting with whom, and we exchanged seats a dozen times before the kids were happy with their seating arrangements.

Mrs Tarvin - I'm allowed to call her Ashley now, even though it still seems a bit weird - said a few words before the play began. Ashley had been one of my Forensics coaches in high school, and hearing her speak, I still couldn't quite grasp the concept that she's not still my teacher.

The student pit band started up.

New memories rushed over me.

A few years ago, in Scotland, I asked my daughter's dance teacher about the local amateur dramatics groups, and how one gets involved. Scott and I had gone to the Arts Guild to see RENT, and I only discovered they were a local drama group when I heard the woman behind me say her co-worker was in the show. I realized then how much I missed acting and decided to find out more. Fifi's dance teacher, Linda, told me about a group that was soon holding auditions for Footloose, and I gathered up some (okay, a lot of) courage and auditioned. Little had I realized until that point just how much I had missed being on stage, and, well, that was me hooked. About a year later, the Greenock Light Opera Club (GLOC) did Beauty & the Beast. I had an absolute blast dancing around as a gold fork in some scenes, and singing savagely as an angry villager in others.


As the opening music filled the CHS theater, emitting from the same pit our fellow classmates used to play in, I was transported not only back in time but in space. I was in high school, I was in Scotland and I was right there with my wonderful daughters and friends, all at once.

The curtains opened and there on the stage was the Prince, being approached by the old peasant woman. (Considering I was half in Scotland at this point, I guess it might be understandable that my first thought was, "He's awfully young to be playing the beast." A second later I realized, um, that's because I'm watching a high school musical.) Moments later, the stage was fully lit with a lovely village set and villagers in fantastic costumes in a stage freeze. Belle appeared on stage. I had wondered previously what the standard of this show would be, seeing as they were all high schoolers, but as soon as Belle opened her mouth, I wondered no more. Her voice was beautiful, sweet but powerful. From the very start, I believed she was Belle and was immediately transported to 18th century France. My memories of high school and GLOC vanished. Aside from the instinct to sing where I had once been expected to sing, and in the first soprano parts, I forgot about myself and really enjoyed the show.

All of the characters were fantastic. Maurice, Belle's father was gentle and appropriately dopey-bizarre. Gaston was incredible - great voice and commanding presence. Lumiere and Cogsworth had the audience in stitches with their often off-script jokes. Mrs Potts was sweet and motherly and very endearing. The beast was frightening at first (my five-year-old jumped into my lap when he came on stage) but genuinely grew kind and lovable by the end. The enchanted objects' costumes were dazzling. The sets were effective and realistically Disney. The singing by all the main characters was beyond what I expected for a high school production, and many of them were worthy of far greater. The choreography, especially in the Tavern song, where they all sing about Gaston, was energetic and entertaining.

My girls loved it. Keeping them in their seats was a feat and keeping Lolly quiet was impossible. Lolly even cried at the end when the Beast was stabbed by Gaston. (Was that spoiler?) The girls said to me afterwards, "Thank you SO MUCH, Mummy, for taking us here!"

After the show, the kids raced around foyer getting photos with all the characters and autographs for their playbills. They were so excited, we could barely keep them all together!


We then took the kids backstage - calling them VIP - but backstage was nothing like it was in our day. We opened the side door and found ourselves not in the short hallway separating the choir room from the two dressing rooms, but in a long school corridor with classrooms everywhere. A student, still in her actor's makeup but now wearing a Beauty & the Beast t-shirt, pointed us in the right direction. Soon, we found ourselves in that very choir room I knew so well, which still opened up into the wings of the stage.

More memories. This is where pre-show excitement electrified the air, where we were shhhhhhed a million times, where girls did the boys' make-up (especially the boys we liked), where twenty-second costume changes were somehow managed in ten. Many arguments broke out in that room, and so did many make-out sessions. It's a magical room.

We entered the wings and walked onto the stage. Devon joked that she could feel our stage ghosts, but silly as it sounds, I kind of felt we could. I saw myself fifteen years younger standing behind that red curtain, with the hush of the audience, the pit band playing, all of us making silent, exaggerated faces to warm up, noiselessly shaking out our hands and arms to build up the energy, and waiting for that breathless moment when the curtains would be pulled and the full bright lights would blind us and we would turn into fiction.

As I watched our kids run around the stage, making lots of noise, and trying to climb all over the set (which we put an instant stop to), I wondered what passions they will discover as they grow and what experiences they will remember years later. I wondered where each will end up, and if they will have high school memories worth returning back for.

I may find it extremely difficult being back in my home town again after so many years away, but one thing I can say without reservation is that I have a lot of great memories of this place that have been worth revisiting.

Cabin Fever

I have some serious cabin fever going on right now. Except for two very short excursions, I've been stuck in my house since Sunday. It's Thursday. I feel like I'm under house arrest.

Sunday morning, Scott's mum and dad took the kids to breakfast and then to church while Scott and I slept in late and had a quiet morning together. That afternoon, my dad, stepmom, brother and an aunt and uncle from Pennsylvania (here for my big brother's wedding the day before) all came over. Sunday evening is when 'thundersleet' hit Arkansas. It was the second* most amazing storm I've ever seen. Sleet, freezing rain, thunder, lightning, all at once. It was incredible.

(*Second to the time we came home from Scotland for a visit and witnessed fork lightning touching ground so close we could see where it hit, and the flashes were so bright, the street lighting kept turning off, thinking it was daylight!)

Thundersleet

Not surprisingly, given the six inches of ice topped with an inch of snow the next morning, school and Scott's workplace were both closed on Monday. It was actually a little blessing, since that was Mum and Dad's last day here in the States. The roads were a sheet of ice, so I stayed in all day with the kids. Scott's parents ventured out in the afternoon to get some last minute things taken care of, then we had t-bone steaks for dinner (mmmm) and put the kids to bed. We drank whisky. It was a good day to be 'stuck in'.

But come Tuesday morning, it was time to say goodbye. School was cancelled again, and Scott's office didn't open until noon, so Scott took his parents to the airport, while the kids and I said our goodbyes here at home. It was a sad goodbye as always. The children cried; I had to control my own tears to cope with theirs. The house felt very empty without them. Even though we didn't see much of them the last couple of weeks (they didn't even stay with us for the last two weeks!), it was still nice knowing they were somewhere nearby. I even ran into them a few times at the gym and Walmart, which made it feel like we actually lived close to each other again. Knowing they were officially going back home though made them feel very far away again.

So I kept myself busy. The house was a tip after so many guests - we'd had our Seattle friends Jonathan and Sarah and their daughters staying with us the week before - so I cleaned Jaguar's room (had been the 'guest' room), the girls' room (what a disaster!), the hall closet (just because), the kitchen and the living room. The kids bustled about, inside and outside, sometimes playing, sometimes fighting, and I really hoped they'd be back at school on Wednesday. Despite how bad the roads were, I'd have liked to have ventured out a little, but unfortunately Scott had driven to work with Jaguar's car seat still in his car.

Tuesday night, I managed to sneak out for a couple of hours to buy groceries. Saturday would've been grocery day, but we were at my brother's wedding in Hot Springs. Then the weather killed the next three days' shopping opportunities. We were eating weird stuff from the back of the cupboards by Tuesday night.

Speaking of eating, we noticed lots of birds pecking around the ice, trying to find some food. So we scattered birdseed all over the back porch for the hungry birds. We were very popular on Tuesday with the feathered community. And I got some lovely shots.

"Hey, guys, over here!"

Lord Cardinal

Lady Cardinal

Wednesday morning, school was back in session and the roads were more or less clear. Fifi got all dressed up for Dr Seuss day... and then threw up. Sigh. I called the school. Fifi would not be in today. And we would not be going anywhere as planned. No gym for me, KidFifit for Lolly or library Dr Seuss party for any of us. I stayed in all day yesterday. I had errands to run, but even if Fifi could have been trusted in the car for half an hour without the threat of vomit, I had to wait home for two deliveries, which of course, didn't arrive until 4pm. (But they were worth waiting for - my new laptop and my Pampered Chef order!) My head hurt. Lolly refused to listen to a word I said. Fifi was puky and pathetic and feeling sorry for herself. I watched far too much H20 on Netflix with the kids. It was my first day back on keto too, which made me even more irritable. I wanted to cry all day. The highlight of yesterday was dinner. In honor of Dr Seuss week at Fifi's school (which due to ice and illness, she has missed all of), we had Green Eggs and Ham for dinner. 

I would like them with a fox. I'd even like them in a box.

Exhausted, though I had things I wanted to do, I went to bed super early. I slept like a log. I felt awesome waking up this morning.

However, I still couldn't send Fifi to school, since policy is to be symptom-free for 24 hours (back in Scotland it was 48), so here we are again. In the house. I can't take Fifi anywhere because she might still be sick and/or contagious, so no gym for me again this morning. I still needed to run those errands, so we paid some bills and bought a few keto life-savers from Kroger (bacon, whipping cream, Truvia for low-carb cheesecakes) and came home. Now the girls are on 'their' computer (my old laptop), Jaguar is watching a little Charlie and Lola before his nap, and I'm fiddling with my new laptop. My fingers are crossed that Fifi will be symptom-free all day, so she can go to school tomorrow. Not only am I desperate to get to the gym and to have an easier day, but she's got a field trip tomorrow I'd hate for her to miss. Plus, I just need to get out of the confines of this house!! (Lolly, Jaguar, myself, please do not catch Fifi's bug.)

****

Aside from 'cabin fever', I've got a few more updates. Since I didn't blog (or write at all for that matter) much over the last six weeks, here are a few things I'd like to remember.

Number one, Jaguar got his first haircut. I cried. Well, I cried when I got in the car; I held it together in the salon. He had such gorgeous long blonde wispy hair, that flew out to the sides like helicopter blades when he shook his head no. But it was starting to get too long, and he was to be the ring bearer in my brother's wedding, so I took him to get his 'big boy haircut'. I have to admit, as much as it saddened me, he looks adorable (and big) with his new 'do.

Before

After

(My phone takes crappy pictures.)

He looked so grown up with his new haircut, his new dress shoes and his kilt in the wedding.

A suit, a kilt and a uniform walk into a bar...

Which segues perfectly into my brother's wedding.

Fifirst, I took it upon myself to make the flower girl dresses for the three flower girls. I opted for making the dresses instead of buying them to save money. Paying $100 for a child's dress seemed ridiculous, and multiply that by two children and it's outrageous. To make sure all three dresses were the same, I made my niece Ava's dress too.

It was slightly more work than I expected. They turned out beautifully, though, if I do say so myself!

Lolly

Fifi

Ava

Then, amidst the last minute rush to finish the dresses that I'd been taking my time on, my sister-in-law's bridesmaid broke her foot, and the couple asked me to step in last minute. Which meant finding a bridesmaid dress that matched last minute. Christie (my new SIL), her mother and I went shopping for a dress on the Tuesday before the Saturday wedding. In the dress shop, there were only about five long, navy dress choices, and none of the cash-and-carry dresses were even remotely in my size. Except one. ONE. It was really pretty on the hanger, but a size too small. With no other options, aside from finding another store, I tried it on. It fit perfectly. It matched perfectly. I LOVED it. So I bought it. Twenty minute bridesmaid dress shopping, from walk-in to carrying dress home, must be some kind of record. 

(If I'm being literal, it wasn't twenty minutes before I walked out the shop with it. I had it held to the next day, which was pay day.)

I didn't get really any full length photos of me in the dress at the wedding, but here's one taken when I got home.

The wedding was beautiful and sweet. I'm so happy my brother has married such a lovely girl, and I'm delighted to have Christie as my new sis-in-law!

A Few Random Wedding Photos

Groom and Bride (Photobombed by Lolly)

Ava, Matt and Charity

My bros

My main man

The Reception

The Groom's Cake (Star Trek in case you have no idea.)

For more wedding photos: Daniel & Christie's Wedding

Another Old Unpublished One

I found this post while clearing off my desktop. I wrote it long before Scott and I announced to the world that we were moving to the US, but I couldn't of course post it at that time. I think it's safe now. This is what went through my head regarding the prospect of leaving Scotland.



I have to write this in a Word document because I’m not ready to publish it out there yet.

So Scott and I are thinking very seriously about moving back to the United States. Like, next year.

This is seriously mega huge for me.

See, ever since Scott told me he ‘loved me properly’, I knew that my new life was going to be in Scotland. I am sure that I must’ve experienced some grief at leaving my old life behind (and probably if I went back through my blog posts of that time, I’d find the evidence), but I don’t remember it much. Mostly I just knew that my life was about to change big time; I was going to marry a Scotsman and live the rest of my life with him, there.

So how is it that 9 years later, suddenly that is looking likely to change? How do I face that?

I can’t figure out if it’s pride or if it’s genuine ambivalence. See, part of me does feel pride. I was a 22 year old newly graduated university student who made the decision to move to another country and live another life. I was and am proud of that. I have changed so much because of that decision. I was a young girl who in under one year navigated through all the craziness of immigrating and made it. I saved up money, I filled in all the paperwork, I flew to Los Angeles to interview for my visa, I got married and I immigrated to the United Kingdom. Then I went through another crazy process of applying for my Indefinite Leave to Remain in the UK. I birthed my children here. I started three home businesses here. I got my UK driver’s license here. I re-learned English grammar to comply with British rules instead of American.

And I created a life here. I took that first lonely, scared, uncertain year and built a confident, fulfilling, exciting life for myself. I made irreplaceable friends. I have risen to challenges. I have overcome so many of my childhood fears and insecurities. I have become a woman here, a mother, a wife, a business owner, an actress, a supporter, a mentor, a nationalist, here, in Scotland.

I would even go so far as to say, I have become Scottish.

....

As I let that last thought sink in, I wonder, How could I ever revert back to being... American?

It sounds so plebeian now. It sounds so teenager. Americans, with their lame politics and mainstream religion and lack of humour and bad accents... How can I go back to that? Is it even possible? Or is it possible to go back to that place but not to that person? Can this ‘me’ live in that place and still exist?

....

I’ve been trying to figure out what the difference is with this decision and all the other ‘life’ decisions I’ve had to make. I mean, I know people who move constantly, in and out of the UK, all over the States, all over Europe, and they are happy and carefree. Why can’t I do that? Why can’t I just up and move like so many other people do? Well, for starters, that’s just not me. As much as I appreciate excitement and love to do things the not-done way, I am still just a homebody who wants to be settled. I don’t need upheaval to get my kicks. I like to do outrageous things, as long as they are from the comfort of a background that I know and that knows me.

I’ve made ‘big’ decisions before; of course I have. I once had to decide where I would go to university. I once had to decide a major. I once had to decide to quit my job to become a full-time mum. I once had to decide to become self-employed.

I once had to decide to get married. I once had to decide to immigrate to another country. I once had to decide if it was time to start a family.

The difference between these ‘big’ decisions was permanence. If I decided I didn’t like my university, I could go home or transfer. If I didn’t enjoy my major, I could switch. If I realised we couldn’t afford me staying at home to be a mum, I could go back to work. If self-employment didn’t work out, I’d just go back to into employment.

But, um, if marriage wasn’t what I expected (and it wasn’t), I was stuck. If Scotland wasn’t as dreamy as I imagined it (and it wasn’t), I was stuck. If having children wasn’t all sunshine and roses (and it wasn’t), I was stuck. These are the BIG life decisions. These are the things that changed my life... forever. For good. For better or for worse.

Moving back to the States? It’s for better or for worse. If I go back and hate it, I’ll be stuck.

We’ll have sold all our belongings. We’ll have spent thousands on greencard applications, citizenship claims, passports, flights, and other various yet unknown expenses. Scott will have no job still waiting for him back here in Scotland. If we make this decision, we make it forever. For good. If it doesn’t turn out how we expect it, we will still be stuck.

...

I know it would be the right decision for Scott. He would be so happy with his second chance, his turn to become a new ‘him’. His health would be so greatly improved, his career opportunities would open up. He could get back into the things he is passionate about - music, creating. I know he would be happier and that is half what this is all about. I then wonder if it’s the right decision for our kids. Right now, they are in a school that I couldn’t love more. Fifi’s class size is eleven kids – and that includes three different year groups. She is becoming bilingual. In fact, after hearing her little ‘puppet show’ she did for me this afternoon, I could easily say she is bilingual. She has a teacher who has the time and ability to get to know her personally, who knows her likes, dislikes, strengths and weaknesses, her quirks and what she is capable of. She isn’t grouped into an age category or a personality type. She is known for who she is – in a classroom! I couldn’t love that more. Is it really right to take her out of that, and to deprive Lolly and their soon-to-be-born brother of that pleasure?

Or should I be looking at the bigger picture – maybe what will matter more when they are grown are memories of playing outside, living in the sun, growing an outdoor instead of windowsill garden, freedom of safety... countless other benefits to growing up in America that I have forgotten because I’m so acclimated here. It’s not as if there aren’t great schools in America, and it’s not as if bilingualism is the end-all-be-all of education.

If I can be made certain that this move is right for them, then I will not care what it means for my own personal ‘identity’. My husband and my children mean more to me than I mean to myself. I am the wife and the mother, and in my heart, that makes me the enabler. Scott, bless him, sees it the other way around; me and his children mean more to him than he means to himself. So he won’t say outright what he wants to do, because he sees himself as the enabler. He will enable us to stay here if that is what we all want to do. I will enable us to move if that is what they all want to do. I have to say, that is a good place to be in, in the long run! I also have to say, that means one of us has to stand up and make the decision, and I think I know who that person should be and what the decision is.

I need to give Scott the chance he gave me when we got married; I need to let him have a fresh new start and do something life changing.

This means we need to move back.

....

Millions of people grow up in the UK to be intelligent, well-adjusted, happy people. Millions of people grow up in the US to be intelligent, well-adjusted, happy people. My kids can be amongst those millions wherever we live, because they have us to help them along the way. They have sweet friends here that they love in their childlike ways, but they have the ability to make and love new friends just as easily. They have grandparents here they adore to the very deepest places in their souls, but they have grandparents there that they would grow just as attached to and love just as deeply – without losing their deep attachments to the ones they’d have said goodbye to.

My husband could be happy living in Scotland the rest of his life. Or he could be liberated moving to the US and taking control of his life. He could make the most of his life here and be happy watching his children blossom and his wife thrive. Or he could actually enjoy the days and weeks of his life, with the ease of his newfound health, the prospects of a new career at his fingertips, the freedom to indulge in music like he once did, and be surrounded still by the four deepest loves of his life.

Lest I sound like I’ve suddenly somehow re-idealised America, I haven’t. But I can see it through his eyes. It’s the same sort of eyes I saw Scotland with before I came here. Scott couldn’t see the magic and promise I saw in this country, but it was there all along right under his nose. So while I can’t see the magic and promise of America, I can look through his eyes and see what I have become blind to.

I know I could be happy living in Scotland for the rest of my life. I know I have friends here who will be friends for years to come, maybe for life. I also know I could be happy in America, because I used to be happy there. I had friends who came and went, just like I have here in Scotland, but I also have friends that are still there, always ready to take me back into their lives and help me re-adjust. I can reasonably assume that some of my friends here would be the same – ready to welcome me when I come back for visits, never ready to fully release me from their hearts. I have family I love so deeply in both countries. No matter where I go, I will have people I love and yet people I miss. That is just the way of it. So I know what the answer for us is. The answer in the end comes fairly easily.

....

What lies ahead is the hardest part – the slow, painful unravelling of the fabric of this life as I start to let go of what holds me here. The gradual release of possessions, unstitching the tiny squares that formed the quilt of my home bit by bit. The telling people, the lengthy beginnings of goodbyes.

The unavoidable process of detachment.

Supermom Sighting

The elusive 'supermom' is rare and hard to spot. In the wild, you may find her growing her own vegetables in a family homestead while simultaneously home schooling eight children. In suburbia, she may be sighted at a local book-signing where she is promoting her latest Attachment Parenting book while breastfeeding her newborn in a sling across her chest. In my lifetime, and particularly since becoming a mother myself, I've met a few members of this species, but today I spotted the Alpha female, the quintessential Supermom to dominate all other Supermoms.

She was at the gym. She wore her two month old baby in a sling and attended PowerPump. She brought the baby's car seat into the Group Fitness room, and I thought she'd be putting the baby in the car seat upon commencement of class. But no, she wore Baby during warm-ups. Warm-ups were fairly easy though, so surely Baby would be put in car seat after warm-ups. But THEN we stared doing push-ups, and to my amazement, as I not-so-covertly turned to spy on this mother, I saw she was doing push-ups with the baby still in the sling! (Baby's head was well supported by the sling.) We started weights. SURELY not. But yes. Alpha Mother began bicep curls with the dumbbells in either hand. She did chest presses with dumbbells. She did lunges. ALL WITH THE BABY STILL STRAPPED TO HER.

The class was thirty minutes gone before she finally took her sleeping baby out of the sling and put her into her car seat to rest peacefully while Mother started her post-partem ab work.

I was amazed. I was inspired. I was frickin' jealous.

Incredible. Just incredible.


Photo Credit: CoolMomPicks
P.S. You'd NEVER see this being allowed in Scotland. Health & Safety would throw a fit! It's one thing I love about America. People are just allowed to take responsibility for their own health and safety. (And then of course they like to sue when things go wrong, but anyway.) If I'd been allowed to take my infant babies with me to the gym, though I doubt I'd have exercised with them ON me, I'd have definitely gone more often. I also love that my Community Center has a childcare service. I get to put Jaguar, and sometimes Lolly if there isn't a kid class on at the same time, in the creche while I work out. It's an incredible service! They also do classes aimed specifically at senior citizens which is another demographic that needs opportunities to keep fit. Mothers and old dears... that's kind of who I see every day at the gym! I love it.

Valentine's Day: Elf on the Shelf Returns

The kids woke up this morning to a huge surprise.

Banoffee Pie was back!

Santa gave Banoffee the day off to come back to Arkansas to visit his three favourite kiddos. He came bearing gifts and mischief.


He brought a heart-shaped box of chocolates for everyone (Scott, Granny and Grampa all included) and a chocolate rose for me (aww). He brought Jaguar a stuffed doggie, Fifi an owl and Lolly a unicorn.



He made us a batch of pink pancakes, and being the cheeky rascal he is, he dyed our gallon of milk pink.



(He made the pancakes on my Pampered Chef Executive Sauté Pan and left some of the pink batter in the fridge in my Pampered Chef Classic Batter Bowl. Lolly, the observant one, noticed this and said, "Banoffee is so clever! He uses Pampered Chef stuff!")

The kids were elated this morning, and utterly surprised. They hugged Banoffee and thanked him for all there presents.

The best part though?

After breakfast, Fifi came running over to me and whispered in my ear, "Thanks, Mum."

My baby girl. Growing up too fast.

Out-Mothering Each Other

I could totally be one of those mothers who hijacks her child's art projects in order to make it the best in the class. I've got that competitiveness in me, and I love arts and crafts. I have fun ideas and love a well-made, mess-free final product. So when a project is assigned from school, I have to make a huge effort to stay the heck out of it and let my child take the lead.

Kids are making their Valentine's Mailboxes for school parties tomorrow. Fifi's class is no exception. A letter went home with the students informing parents that the boxes need to be made at home and brought into school, and there would be a competition for Most Creative, Most Loving, Most Whatever-else-the-teacher-could-think-of. The letter mentioned 'Cute ideas can be found on Pinterest!' Bloody Pinterest.

I haven't made a Valentine's mailbox since elementary school, and that was long before Pinterest took over our imaginations. My mailboxes were shoeboxes covered in wrapping paper (or at least brown packaging paper) and covered with stickers and marker drawings. Glitter was considered high-brow.

I took the letter's advice (BAD) and looked on Pinterest for ideas. BOY, DID THEY HAVE SOME IDEAS. I showed Fifi photo after photo of cute, intricate, creative, stylish, award-winning mailboxes. She loved all of them but didn't want to do any. Fifinally I came to my senses and like a proper mother asked, "What do you have in mind for your box then?"

She thought for a moment and said, "I'd like the top to look like a Scottish flag. On the side, I could have a picture frame or something."

There was nothing on Pinterest that looked like a Scottish flag with a picture frame on the side. I was pleased and humbled by her individual creativity.

So I bought some blue spray paint (because we all know I love spray paint), and while she was at school, I prepped her shoebox by painting it blue for her. By the way, spray paint doesn't apply well to cardboard, I've discovered. I used an entire can on that baby, about six coats, to get the Nike swoosh to finally go away.

Yesterday we got out my trusty hot glue gun and glued down two white strips of paper, creating the Scottish saltire across the top of her mailbox. We cut out a picture frame from a scrap piece of cardboard, and Fifi helped me spray paint it orange. (By helped, I mean, she picked out a color from my collection of cans and stood back while I sprayed. Baby lungs, people.) She drew a picture for inside the frame.

I thought she was done, but no sir. She had other plans. Every side needed something. So today I pulled out my craft box, and we started brainstorming. At the library this morning, Lolly got to do a project using foam Love Hearts, and it had given me an idea. I had a bag of real Love Hearts which I allowed Fifi to hot glue all over the box. I imagined a nice little frame made of candy all around the flag, but she had different ideas. So I once again, stood back and let my kid direct the project. I love what she did with them.

You'd never think she was actually having fun based on this face!

She placed them along the white cross of her flag. It wasn't what I'd have done, but it's how she wanted it, and it turned out really great. We then found some wooden letters. I've been holding onto these wooden letters for years, not wanting to waste them, but today I decided it was time to USE the craft items. She spelled out her name on the box with them. Then she colored the letters in with markers and dotted the 'i' with a Love Heart.

Won't be using those letters again, I guess.

I also had some miniature clothes pegs in my craft box, so she got the idea to peg little pictures or words along the side. I suggested 'Be Mine' or 'Love' (not wanting to use all my pegs!) but she wanted 'Valentine'. So we glued on the pegs, and I showed her how to cut hearts out of folded paper. Most of her hearts looked like those pixelated Space Invaders, but oh well! She pegged the hearts to the box. It turned out super cute!


On the next side, she drew some hearts on pink cardstock and glued a Love Heart in the middle of each. I call this the Triple Hearts side.


And finally, I let her use my pink alphabet stickers (my poor craft box!) to write a message on the last side. "Happy Valentines Day!" (There was no apostrophe sticker, much to my perturbation.)


I think the whole box looks fantastic.

I know it's easy to get caught up in our kids having the "best", most impressive projects, but really, that's not what it's all about. The real point is letting the kids get creative themselves, letting them come up with their own ideas, and then helping them see it through. I'm not criticizing ANYONE for doing awesome Pinteresty projects; if Fifi had wanted to do one, we would have, and I would've LOVED it. I'm AMAZED by how cool some of my friends' kids' mailboxes are. (I'm thinking in particular of a Facebook picture of the most awesome shark mailbox I've ever seen. I am so not criticizing this stuff!) What I'm more pointing to is the temptation to take over their projects for them, and make them do what we, as the parents, think is the best way. This not only deprives them of the opportunity to be creative and think for themselves, but it also undermines their confidence. When we shoot down their ideas in preference to our own, we're only teaching them that they are not as creative as we are nor as capable. Their ideas may not win them the class competition, but who cares? It's often, I've found, the parents, with their parental pride, that cares more about winning those competitions than the kids do. Sure Fifi mentioned that she wanted to win, and of course she wants to win. I just reminded her that winning the competition is only part of the fun. Having a blast with glue and markers, coming up with fun ideas, and making her ideas come to life is the good stuff. Whoever gets picked, I reminded her, will have worked just as hard as she did, but hopefully she'll have had the most fun!

I've seen a refreshing number of friends on Facebook remark that their kids have just colored and glued and stuck stickers on their boxes. I've seen a refreshing number of people suggest we all stop competing with other parents via our children. Furthermore, my saying I let Fifi take the lead and do her own thing is also not meant to be another version of "competition" or "out-mothering you". We can compete with each other by our non-competitiveness too. ("I'm less competitive than you, na-nana-na boo boo!") All I'm really saying is, it's the child's project. Not ours. We had our turn, back in the day. Now if we feel the need to out-craft each other, that's what bloody Pinterest is for. But let's keep the parent competition out of our kids' classrooms. They have enough peer competition to deal with as it is.

The Missing Element

My "theme" for 2014, as decided after last year's October Dress Project, was/is "Satisfaction". More specifically, I wanted to make an effort to be satisfied with what I have and where I am right now. So far, I can't say I've made much headway in this. I still look at the clothes hanging in my closet every day and think, "I can't/won't wear 90% of this stuff." Either it doesn't fit, it's the wrong season (I never did get much in the way of winter-wear), or it's just not me. I still look at where I'm living and think, "I can't wait to get out of here." My house is starting to feel more like a home, which I'm happy about, though I still have so many things I'd like to do to decorate it. I still haven't gotten around to making many friends either, but that's where this thought process is going...

Before I expect satisfaction, I need motivation. It's the missing element.

I can't be satisfied with my situation if I don't have the motivation to change it. Granted, motivation won't fix everything; I can be very motivated about going to the mall, but that doesn't mean I'm willing to spend our money there! But I can be motivated about getting myself in a better place mentally, emotionally, physically and socially.

I've only been here in America eight months, though it feels like so much longer, but it's not like me to sit at home all day, every day, letting the kids watch TV while I busy myself with housework or lie on the couch in a bored or depressed daze. I'm in-between everything right now, and in-between is never a comfortable or exciting place to be.

I'm in-between Lolly being at school. In Scotland, she was in nursery and would've been at school this year. Here she can't start school until August. It's an in-between year with her back at home with me again for a year, and we're both going stir crazy.

I'm in-between homes. I was settled in Greenock, and I hope to settle somewhere else soon. I'm not settled here in Arkansas and if I'm honest, I guess I don't really want to be. I also know we won't be in this house for any longer than another year, so I don't feel it's worth the effort to get really properly settled in this house either.

I'm in-between friends. I had so many close friends before I moved, and I haven't yet quite made those same kind of friends again. I have met people who have great potential for becoming good friends, if I'd just make the effort, though. I just haven't made the effort. I guess I'm afraid of missing them if/when we move away?

I'm in-between faiths. I am not quite a Christian any more, but I'm not quite something else yet either. I don't know what I actually believe, I just know what I don't believe.

I'm even in-between sizes! I've lost enough weight that my old clothes hang off me, but I'm not yet the size I'm going to be, therefore I can't justify buying new clothes yet.

Having my Scottish in-laws staying with us these past few weeks has kind of made me realize how much this needs to change. My father-in-law, who is the kind of guy who tells it like it is, keeps commenting on how "greetin'-faced" I am these days, and how it's not like me to be stuck in all the time. I get the impression that I get talked about a lot for it behind my back! They have made sure me and Scott have gotten out a few times to spend time together without kids, and they have encouraged me to get to the gym. It turns out (and I only found this out because they found out for me) that our local community center not only does the kind of Group Fifitness classes that I enjoy, but they also have childcare!

So I have some new goals, which will require motivation to achieve.

Get fit. Today, I woke up early, got dressed in the only set of gym clothes I have, and went to the gym. I put Jaguar in the creche, Lolly went into the twice-weekly KidFifit class, and Marion and I went to a Step class. It felt great. It also meant Lolly got a little social interaction too, which she's been missing out on - and suffering for. I now have a one-month membership to try it out. I have good intentions of taking Lolly to KidFifit twice a week, taking myself to Kickboxing, Step, PowerPump and Yoga, and taking all the kids to the pool on Saturdays. I'm also back on Keto, and I'm not going to give in to carb temptation! (Even when my father-in-law makes delcious-smelling toast at 10pm... grrr.)

Get crafty. I have started sewing a little again. I'm making the flower girl dresses for the three flower girls at my brother's wedding next month (Fifi, Lolly and my niece Ava). I've also made a taggie blanket for my sister-in-law who's due her baby next month, and I'm making one for my other sister-in-law in Scotland who's just had a baby, and once I know what sex her baby is, my other sister-in-law will get one for her baby due in the summer. Scott has promised me my own new sewing machine next month, so I won't have to rely on borrowing machines from family members. (He's the best.)

Get friendly. Last week, I went to a visitation for my friend's father who just passed away. On the way home, I sat in the back seat of the car with my two old best friends from high school, Devon and Liz, and we all lamented that we don't do anything any more besides sit at home alone. I think we all need to change that. I also have a new friend here in town that I really like (hi, Mandy!), and I'm determined to get to know her better and see her more. (In fact, I'm meeting up with her and her kiddos tomorrow.) I may never have my old Tuesday night Craft Night back (boy, do I miss Craft Night and my awesome Craft Night buddies), but some kind of regular chin-wag with friends is something I really need to make happen.

And finally, Get the book done. I'm now brave enough to call my 'project' a 'book'. I have enough pages written, and enough material in my head I still have to cover, that I can confidently say I'm writing an actual book. Now, what I'll do with this book once it's finished is completely undecided, but getting the book written is necessary and essential for me in a million ways. I've had to take a break while in-laws are here, with the baby sleeping in my room, and therefore no privacy for writing, but the ideas keep coming and I'm jotting them all down, and thinking about it constantly. This book is happening!


These are my goals. I feel motivated about them today; I'm not so naive as to think I may not feel less motivated tomorrow. The act of sharing them publicly, though, helps keep me on track.

Confessions

I think it's time to come clean about something.

I've been keeping this little secret for a long time. Actually, that's not fair. In all honesty, I had no idea how completely this has had a hold over me. To say I've been keeping it a secret would imply that I realized it's power over me and have been concealing it. In truth, it's been concealing itself from me.

Only a few people in my life are aware of what I'm about to share. Yet I feel there are probably many of you out there who have the same problem. This needs to be said.

I have an addiction.

It's not an illegal addiction, like heroin. It's not a semi-legal addiction like alcohol. Instead it's a fully legalized, even encouraged substance that I'm addicted to.

Friends, I am a carbaholic.

*****

I thought I had my addiction under control. I thought I could stop whenever I wanted. I thought it was a minor thing, doing only minor damage to my health. I even believed at times that carbohydrates were good for me. But the truth is, I am dangerously addicted to this substance, and I always will be.

Once an addict, always an addict.

Scott and I went on a ketogenic diet starting the first of January. Basically, we went cold turkey. For the first few days, the withdrawal was awful. I got shakes and a headache; I felt grumpy and depressed. A couple of days later, however, I started feeling great. The cravings were gone! Physically anyway. The mental addiction was still strong; I opened the cupboards several times a day looking for a tasty snack. I wanted to put food in my mouth. I satiated myself with cheese slices and boiled eggs to help me get over the habit of snacking. For three weeks, we stuck to our carb-fast impressively, and I never felt better.

Then one day, we fell off the wagon. Just like that. It was so easy to do. We went on a date, a rare thing when you have kids, and decided to treat ourselves to a little cake. We shared one small slice of chocolate fudge cake with ice-cream. While it tasted heavenly, the sickness immediately followed. We vowed never to eat carbs again; we felt so awful. I even felt morally guilty about it. Yet only an hour later, at the cinema, we decided to just 'go with it' and order popcorn too. Again, we felt awful afterwards, and all night I wrestled with nausea. We abstained from carbs for the next week or so, trying to get back into ketosis, going through the withdrawal symptoms again.

But after only another week or two, the urges returned. I started getting careless, wreckless. A little chocolate here, a bit of toast there. Surely one little bite won't hurt. Before I knew it, I was fully back into the ways of carb addiction again. I wake up each morning determined 'today will be different' but end up blowing it by noon.

I have a problem.

I need help.

I want to get to a stage where I can live without carbs, and if I do want to indulge quietly every once in a while, the same way I occasionally enjoy a drink of alcohol, I won't binge. I don't know if this is possible, but it's the goal.

The first step to overcoming addiction is to admit you have a problem.

Hi, my name is Lori and I'm a carboholic.

The Real Scotland - In Film

We just watched a Scottish movie directed by Ken Loach called The Angels' Share. I've seen a few of his movies, namely Sweet Sixteen and Ae Fond Kiss, and I like them for how realistic their portrayal of life in the West of Scotland is. Sweet Sixteen was even filmed in Greenock!

I find it amusing that when people picture Scotland, they imagine the beautiful mountains, green grass, a light misting rain, and people in kilts eating porridge. They see Braveheart and Brave and Highlander; if they are a little more canny, they might see Trainspotting. But in reality, it's a lot of Sweet Sixteen, Ae Fond Kiss and The Angels' Share. Neds and drugs, drink and thugs. Sectarianism and fitba, track suits and chibs.


It's also beautiful mountains, green grass and misting rain. It's also fine whiskys, Robert Burns and masterful cutting banter. There are a lot of amazing things about Scotland, right along side all the rubbish.  (I really miss Scotland.)

If you want to know what every day Scottish life is really like, and you are over 18, you should check out one of these films. The Angels' Share is about a ned who develops a taste for whiskys and uses it to find a way out of his troubled life for the sake of his girlfriend and new son. Sweet Sixteen is about a kid with a tough background waiting until his mum gets out of prison so they can start a new life, who needs to raise some cash - and does it the only way he knows how. Ae Fond Kiss is about a Pakistani man who falls in love with a Scottish woman and all the problems it presents with his family.

Next on my Ken Loach watch list is Kes. It's an old one, and I don't know why I've not seen it yet.

America: The Beautiful?

I hate to get involved in the Culture Wars, except while in my own home where my husband and I like to mercilessly berate anyone whose views differ from ours and are therefore wrong, but it's late, and my sound judgement is maybe a little off kilter, and I'm just going to say this:

If anyone I know complains on Facebook about the SuperBowl Coca-Cola ad, I will de-friend them.

Yeah, it's maybe a little extreme, and I'm probably going to regret saying that in the morning, and in the end, I'll probably only remove you from my feed as opposed to full-fledged de-friending (maybe), but at this moment, when I'm feeling a little keto-woozey on my half-dram of Glenlivet, I am utterly disgusted with certain Americans right now. America the Beautiful? It is, but it's also made up of a lot of seriously un-beautiful jackasses.

"America the Beautiful" was sung multi-lingually in a Coke ad. It was a nice ad. It was ethnocentric (no, really, America, it was. It was America-worship.), but it was nice. Lots of people singing in their first languages. I heard some Spanish, some French, some German, was that some Arabic? and lots of other languages I'm not educated enough to recognize. It started and ended in English, of course. Me and my family, while watching the SuperBowl, joked that people were going to get all riled up, 'Murica-style about it, but we were only kidding. When Scott told me it really had caused a controversy, I thought he was messing with me. He sent me a link; I assumed it was a hoax site.

But no, really. People are ACTUALLY mad that Coke sang an American song in - gasp - a different language! You mean, all Americans don't speak American? Send those immigrants home!

Oh wait.

Seriously. I shouldn't even have to explain what is wrong with that line of thinking. There is so much wrong with it. I'm going to assume no one needs me to go into all the levels of wrong and stupid this is.

Because if you have a problem with this ad, you are not only an idiot, but you are an idiot. Yeah, I did that on purpose, because there is no other term for the idiocy that these racist Americans are spewing all over the internet. I have no respect for racists. I have some respect sometimes for idiots who can't help being idiots, but not for racist idiots.

MID-STREAM DISCLAIMER: Scott hates when I blog stuff like this. Sorry, honey, blame the whisky. Scott is not affiliated in any way with his wife. Except through marriage but that's different.

Apparently, part of the controversy is that they sang that particular song. Like it's a particularly English-only song. Either people are enraged because it's an American song sung by - gasp - bilingual Americans, or they think it's the national anthem. (To which I ask, why would that matter anyway? And also, it's not.) Is there something unpatriotic about languages that aren't English? Psst. Here's a bit of trivia for you. English isn't our language anyway. We stole it from, you know, England. Unless you are Native American, your own ancestors spoke a different language too upon arriving on this soil (unless they were from, you know, England). Come to think of it, if you ARE Native American, your ancestors also spoke a different language before the Europeans - some of them even spoke English - forced them off their own land and nearly annihilated their entire population with guns and disease.

Anyway, my diatribe is coming to an end. I've just run out of irritated steam. If you haven't seen the ad, here it is, in all it's linguistic glory.



***Now go read this to see what real-live Americans have to say about it.

Speak English!: Racist Revolt as Coca-Cola Airs Multilingual 'America the Beautiful' SuperBowl Ad