What's Going On

Care and Feeding

I have accomplished some of my goals today -- run useful errands, buy birthday present for friend turning 40 (still a mere babe!), type of list of care and feeding instructions for my son. I also managed to insert a trip to Cafe Barrone, our swish outdoor cafe next to Keplers, our local independent book seller where I also bought a book in anticipation of our upcoming camping trip.

It always feels like a most decadent adventure to go to Barrone's for coffee, as it is located two towns south of us. If we lived in a real city though, we would think nothing of driving 20 minutes to get to a good coffee shop. If we lived in a real city, we would probably avoid Barrone like the plague, as it is very expensive and choc a bloc with networking professionals, affluent women with hairdos, and people dressed in the freaky uniform of the urban road racer biker -- do they wear Speedos to the pool for god's sake, people? -- at an age when they shouldn't. But as we live in a burbish area of bedroom communities, a touch of urban class feeds the soul from time to time.

About that list. I've been procrastinating for years on writing it. Hard denial. Wishful thinking. Strange inertia. Whatever. I know it reads like an instruction set for "How to Raise a Spoiled Brat" but believe me, if you want things to go smoothly it helps. Also, if your goal is merely to teach a 7-year old how to swim passably, build lego cars, or lead him through a day of cheap day camp, and you are not his parent or therapist. The list is especially useful for people who think their job is to teach children how to be obedient and behave normally, regardless of their job description, pay scale, or the consequences of imposing their enslavement to rigidity on other people.

Here it is:

M has some behavioural issues that make it hard for him to follow directions and control his emotions, especially when he is with other children.

Some helpful hints:

–         Use positive incentives instead of threats and negative consequences

–         Keep things light and playful

–         Give him lots of praise and encouragement

–         Don’t pressure or force him to do things he really doesn’t want to do

–         He is often very anxious about failing or making mistakes and pushing him too hard will just cause a melt down

–         Do make him eat! He may not want to eat if he is too excited, but low blood sugar makes things worse

–         Avoid being unnecessarily strict or “firm”

–         Be flexible

–         Allow him physical space – especially if he needs to blow off some steam or melt down

–         Let him move around as much as he needs to

–         Let him calm himself down before trying to talk to him about any inappropriate behaviour

–         He will often be very upset about having done something wrong which just adds to his emotional intensity

Meow

Thursday's San Mateo Times reports that female bloggers "have struggled to shed the stigma that the only things women can write about are motherhood, knitting and cats."

Well I'm here to say that I would capture billions of electrons and press them into the servitude of extolling my two cats, except that I am just not that energetic. Trust me, if I were not a slacker, I'd be a leading blogger about felines.

As a side note, I'd like to offer my observation that when people have behaviour characteristics that remind you of a cat, it's never a good thing. You should probably phone a highly qualified medical professional right away if you know someone like this.

Why I Read the Newspapers

Yesterday my son was asked not to return to Lego camp as he had a experienced a Lego-throwing meltdown because his catapult didn't work right. I should have known better than to expect him to survive in the hot house environment of a small room, many boys, and competitive Lego building. My unhelpful optimism or denial, call it what you will, had once again clouded my vision with rosey blue skies.

My son was initially crushed and heart broken, but seemed to bounce back OK by the time swimming lessons came around. I was devasted and awash in despair for the rest of the day. I yearned painfully for a child who could do sleepovers, camp outs, have friends over for the whole day, survive at suumer camp, excel at school, play league sports, on and on my sad list went.

I woke up still feeling somewhat hopeless and got the paper. Right. Things are not perfect with us, true, but nobody is bombing the snot out of our neighbourhood. The electricity is on, water runs hot and cold through our taps, the fridge is well stocked, nobody near to us is dying.

So, a little perspective. Big problems. Little problems. It's sad when my son experiences set backs, but it is not the end of our world.

London Part 3 -- Transportation

Here is why I'll never move to the UK, Australia, New Zealand, or Japan and drive: This morning I placed something in our old microwave oven, dead but not yet removed because it is part of an integrated unit with the wall mounted oven, damn it, instead of into the new microwave oven which is large, bright white, and fairly obtrusive. We've had the new microwave for months, but that did not stop me from automatically heading over to the old dead oven and sticking in my container. I would be fine driving on the left at first, while it was still new, shiny and terrifying, but then the day would come when I'd be so at ease and assimilated, running on auto pilot, and I'd drive right into the first oncoming white van.

The drivers of the ubiquitous white van were experiencing a moment in the spotlight while we were there. The white van is to the UK what the white Ford F150 truck is to us -- the vehicle of choice for tradesmen and other people who make their living providing services and deliveries. A report had just come out identifying white van men (WVM) as the most dangerous drivers on the road, when it came to paying courteous attention to other drivers, cyclists, and pedestrians. There was much tittering in the press about them, which I'm sure was unpleasantly class-based in origin, but made me extra careful about crossing the street or walking too close to the curb.

One nice thing about London is the way they paint "Look Left" and "Look Right" on the street directly in front of you at crosswalks. It is invaluable and I'd be dead or maimed today without this assistance.

The best drivers on the road, or at least in London, are the bus drivers. I was able to persuade my husband and son to accompany me on a double decker bus ride on our last evening in town.

"They're phasing them out, and they may not be here next time we come, and our son will never have had the chance to ride one," I declared passionately to my husband who was loath, loath! to come along. "You have to come with me too," I pointed out. "I'll get lost forever if you don't." All too sadly true, otherwise I'd have spared him. "I hate buses," he mumbled darkly, "And I don't know the system. I don't know exactly when they are coming and I don't know where they are going..."

An anathema to an engineer...unknown variables everywhere and erratic, nonlinear, unquantifiable squiggly lines of bus routes unpredictably going who knows where! But what is foreign travel without a moment or two of stimulating fear as you plunge with impetuous innocence into the unexplored dimensions of places you've never been to?

We finally compromised on a ride from the Baker Street Underground station to Oxford Circus. We would take the underground back, as we had day tickets and it wouldn't cost extra. The ride was thrilling! High up, as high as second story windows, we raced along Baker Street, with exquisite views of side streets, lined with all manner of historic buildings, pointing off into uncharted and alluring horizons. Weaving through traffic -- cabs, automobiles, white vans and other buses --charging down Oxford Street past all the big name British stores, John Lewis, Debenhams, Selfridges, stopping only at traffic lights and bus stops.

At the first bus stop, my son and I, who were sitting in the very front seats of the top deck, were astonished and agape as the driver raced up at top speed to stop on a dime, or six-pence, I guess, centimeters away from the lumbering double decker bus parked ahead of us. "Cheesus Christ!" my son exclaimed, to the consternation of my husband and the slender African man sitting across from us. Long minutes then ensued as my son suddenly developed the inability to not yell "Cheesus Christ" in a spontaneous and specific moment of Tourettes. I kept offering alternatives, and he even tried to come up with a translation in "kid language." "How about yikes!" I'd say. "I know," he'd brightly and loudly respond, "I could say 'Gleesus Glist' instead of 'Cheesus Christ', or maybe 'Weebly Wiste' would that mean the same in kid language as "Cheesus Christ?!"

My proper British husband, dragged on an expedition to hell, the African man pointedly staring, finally we reached our final stop and leapt out on to the crowded rush hour sidewalks where no one could hear us anymore.

London -- Part 2 -- The Zoo

The day before we went to the Aquarium, we went to the London Zoo. We walked across Regent's Park from the house where we were staying. This is the London Pad of my sister-in-law and her husband, who are based out of Stewarton, Scotland. The house is actually more of a townhouse, recently constructed on the site of a former garage. Down the street is a sign marking the birthplace of the Bentley. The house is very modern in design and stretches all of 15.5 feet in width and about twice that in length (yes, I stole the tape measure and measured it when no one was looking). What it really has going for it, apart from the price, which was nothing due to the generosity of our very kind inlaws, is location. Close to the Baker Street underground station; moments away from the Sherlock Holmes museum, Beatles memorabilia store, and Elvis store; just around the corner from Regent's Park where we headed off on our way to the Zoo.

The Park was strangely ungreen and hence felt very unEnglish thanks to an unusual summer-long drought. Fortunately for us the temperature was not in the 30s (Celsius) that day but breezily in the mid twenties. As we walked past the somewhat turgid Boating Lake my son was tremendously excited by herons wandering around looking ancient and mysterious, and was sanguine about the dead rat floating by belly up in amongst a group of ducks. "Well, I was thinking it would be fun to go boating," I said, "But maybe not." My husband ignored me, as for him Boating was never in the equation. What, not cram sixteen expensive exhausting activities into our day rendering us all hysterical and/or comatose by nightfall? Isn't that the point of travel? So, we carried on, past large groups of uniformed children at some sort of field day event, others on their way to the inevitable field trip, on to the Zoo.

The Zoo was small and in the middle of large amounts of construction, transforming it from a Victorian animal torture chamber to something more in lines with modern views on animal care. Larger animals like the elephants had been moved out to a wild animal park in Luton (just screams "exotic savage beasts," doesn't it?) and the remaining creatures seemed comfortable enough. The Komodo Dragon was not to be seen, which was a disappointment for me for some reason, but there were relaxed lions lounging around, camels chewing cud happily enough, and toucans, thrillingly tropical in appearance. "These are my favourite birds," my son pronounced joyously leaping up and down in front of their enclosure, thus causing the toucans some alarm, but not too much as they probably just mistook him as one more noisey rain forest monkey on the loose.

Also in attendance, the aforementioned English School Child, this time including the Upper School Student, dressed in another flavour of unflattering uniform: the shapeless two-piece navy blue suit, comprised of long-armed, peg-legged pants and jackets, a uni-sex ensemble worn by all the kids regardless of race, creed, or gender.

The last time I was in London, a few years ago, I was startled to discover that London isn't really England. I was quite disappointed on that visit that more Londoners weren't stereotypically English, as I was there to gawk specifically at that type of individual or what I imagined they would look like based on my memories of being there 20 years ago and reading a lot of Agatha Christie books. But this time I took in stride the fact that a large number of Londoners hie from South Asia, Asia, or Africa, the lands of the Empire. Many of these in turn are observant Muslim girls and women, and teachers and students alike sported varying degrees of  hijab, most commonly a head scarf, or a combo set of headscarf and long coat. At one point I spotted a woman in full hijab, all black robes and head coverings, with a tiny slit to see out. It gave me a horrible start, she looked like the angel of death, but I tried not to make her feel bad by staring uncouthly at her. I did see a similar woman in Target right here in Deadwood City once, so it's not like I haven't witnessed it before. Still, I wondered about teachers in veils teaching children who are not Muslim. Do they talk about it? Do they explain why it is inherently oppressive of women and not really a requirement of Islam? Do the parents object? Who would I ask, anyway? If I did, and got an answer, I'm sure it would be delivered in a South London nasal drawl, as while the eyes looking at London sense that they are in some global waystation, the ears would tell you that you are in a land as English as tea and cheese toasties.

All this made me wonder further about the terrorists who blew up the underground and double decker bus almost exactly one year ago. Blowing up anything in Central London is bound to take out a large number of Muslim people, many very religious and devout. How could this be justified? Made me nervous, I don't mind telling you, every time we went down into the underground or took a bus. I'm glad nobody set out any bombs while we were there.

London -- Part 1 -- The Aquarium

Because I live mostly inside my own head, reality often comes as a startling surprise.

London, for example. I thought we'd take the tube and merrily tour about, seeing all the famous places that might interest my son: Big Ben, the Zoo, the new Aquarium, and whatever else came to us in moments of spontaneous exploration. My son would stand next to the big clock tower and cringingly clap his hands over his ears as the old gong rang out 10, 11, or even 12 deafening bongs, echoing all around us, stunning us with its powerful sound waves. The zoo would be quaint and filled with rare and exotic animals from Africa and India. The Aquarium would be shiny new and bright and populated with schools of fish from the Indian Ocean, the South Pacific, and the Atlantic.

Nowhere in my musings as I poured over maps and Googled every London attraction I could think of did I include the vast crowds of tourists, many inexplicably Italian, the avalanches of primary school children on field trips from schools that apparently, never get out, the sheer exhaustion of being jostled about on sidewalks, in front of lions, next to piranhas, on bridges over the alarming murkiness of the Thames, by the hordes of people that make a big city a big city.

Big Ben we did see, massively tall and ornate. We got there, by tube, just in time for 11:00 am. "Can you hear it ringing?" I shrieked to my son, my question barely audible above the ceaseless roaring of taxi cabs; buses, single and otherwise; private automobiles; and white vans. Well, you could if you really concentrated, there it was, faintly pinging away in the background. We counted to 11, took a few photos and headed across Westminster Bridge along with the rest of the world.

The Aquarium was where they were all headed, at least those of them who were under 4 feet and outfitted in school uniforms. Boys and girls from one school in bright yellow polo shirts and navy shorts or skirts. From another school, dedicated to the theme of the Dickens Workhouse or The Little House on the Prairie, hard to say really, girls dressed in green and white gingham frocks. Some were straight shirt dresses, others truly hideous puffy A-line gowns, still others with flippy little cap sleeves and an extra flounce at the bottom. They were sort of like bridesmaid dresses, not so much in their ornamentation or attempts at glamour, but more for the fact they looked bad on practically everyone. This did not stop any of the girls or any of the other children from racing about at top speed yelling wildly at the fishes on display. After a while we got the timing down, jogging along to stay ahead of one group, but not going too fast so we could avoid the mayhem ahead. The touch tank we avoided completely. A young aquarium docent was gamely trying to tell us something about bat rays, but the excitement of the young scholars, combined with the total lack of acoustical buffering, made the whole endeavor mostly pointless. I've never really approved of this sort of cheap theatrical manhandling of the animals either and my son is in equal parts petrified and repelled at the thought, so we gave it a miss and nicely managed to outrun at least three schools at the same time.

The Aquarium building itself was very dark, black walls and ceilings and only painfully bright little lights to see by, a look so beloved of today's modern museum designer. Why it is that they believe nothing can be viewed unless framed in darkness and set off by annoying spotlights glaring out of the blackness, I'll never know. Maybe it's the responsibility of unemployed theater people who can only find jobs dramatically back lighting octopi and hermit crabs.

One pleasant byproduct of the Aquarium designers' thespian aspirations however, were the ruined temples and other bits of civilization decorating the main display tanks. A somewhat ominous statement about the relationship between human and ocean, or maybe just a way of disposing of unwanted props, we found the head and shoulders of statues of important ancient Roman men at the bottom of what looked like a sewer outlet into the Thames, a statue of Buddha calmly staring out at us from an Indian mangrove swamp, and coolest of all, giant Easter Island heads in a huge tank full of sullen sharks looking to pick a fight and other big fish who looked like they could take care of themselves if need be. Also good was the flock of red bellied piranhas in a nicely done representation of the Amazon, much bigger than I thought they would be, idly floating through a healthy thicket of river reeds, staring back at us with curiosity but no obvious malevolence.

Status: Home Again

Relatives: Far away.

Husband: At work

Child: At Lego Camp

Me: Sitting on sofa, in front of fan on high, catching up on the Daily Show