LA LA Limbo Land

28hours into our new life in Santa Monica and it feels...odd. We're staying in a corporate temporary accommodation apartment, further out than we were intially told we'd be, but we spent our first evening wandering round, getting the obligatory starbucks coffee. This morning headed straight to the beach, which Baywatch made famous. It was gloriously deserted, with a few tai chi-ers, a couple walking along the frothy surf, flip flops in hand, and a woman doing weird dances holding crystal balls in her hands. Perhaps trying to recreate "dance magic dance" from the Labyrinth. Within half an hour more people had gathered but the beach is so flipping BIG it would take hundreds before it felt even vaguely busy! After finally convincing Ethan to walk with his truck rather than slowly push it on his hands and knees for another few hours, we meandered down the pier before Paul left us to pop in at work where we'd meet him later.

So far, so typical holiday. Except it isn't a holiday. We've moved here, lock, stock and barrel (apart from a box of stuff sitting in my parents' loft), with the full intention of moving home again albeit it not for a few years. That's a bloody long holiday. I suppose because we're staying in a huge apartment and not a hotel it already feels like a non-holiday. But it doesn't feel permanent either. Even when I was left to my own devices for a few hours, Maggie asleep in the sling, Ethan asleep in the buggy, and I picked up a local bus map, had a wander round areas I'd been told about - I found myself heading like a homing pigeon to the British pub to get a cup of tea but more subconsciously, to talk to someone with an English accent. Already. I think I had my mum's words ringing through my ears - despite having had to make a new home every few years as she trailed my dad around the world, when we moved to London it took nine days before she spoke to anyone outside the family. Thanks to Americans being ultra friendly and me having the huge attraction of an adorable baby attached to me, I was never going to face the same problem, but I don't feel like I'm staying here for any length of time.

But I don't feel like I'm going home either. That limbo between staying and going. It's probably also all tied into this beng the first time in my adult life when I'll be completely and utterly financially dependant on someone else. I can't work on my visa, which will be fine initially, what with having a newborn in tow, but even when I wasn't working in London I still always had my child benefit and tax credits coming in, and always saved a bit from when I did get work so I had "my" money to spend occasionally. Not that I don't think the work I do running our home, bringing up our children, looking after our finances, planning our time off isn't more than worth the money Paul brings in from working, but it is a definate feeling of lack of control which adds to the limbo feeling.

Back at the apartment this afternoon, having been totally bombarded by the sheer range of stuff available in the supermarket and coming away with some courgettes, ecover detergent and several bottles of wine, Ethan sat at the table to "read his paper" while I made his dinner. Funny little fish, always knows how to make me feel like I'm home....

Provincial town gossip

 

This is probably terribly patronising of me, big old city girl living it up in a crazy world surrounded by crazy people, talking about the life in the local village of my folks in deepest darkest Sussex. But provincial town gossip takes some beating....Turns out this little town is a veritable cauldron of violence.

My mum went for an eyelash tint today and, trying to find some sort of conversation while having her eyes glued together, started asking her beautician about the suspected arson attacks. Well, there have been ten, TEN! Even for someone from southwest London that's a lot! first a portaloo (cue my dad, upon hearing this story, exclaiming "the naughtiest thing I've ever done with a portaloo...." enough, father, enough), then someone's garden shed and all sorts of buildings, animals and probably grandmothers in between. The police suspect the local crazy who walks around in a dressing gown and lives in one of the grandest houses in town albeit without electricity or heating, who has taken in a few "vagrants" who have since set his grand old home on fire. Then there's the assault that's turned into a rape accusation, then the beautician exclaimed "and did you hear about the woman whose fingers were bitten off?"

Yup, some dear old biddie leafleting for the local dogs trust thought it best to really make sure her junk mail made it through the door of an unsuspecting parishioner by thrusting her fingers right through the letterbox, whereupon they were savaged by the dog inside, probably a jack russell (horrid little rabid things). One finger was ripped from its knuckle, the other later amputated. Lovely.

Beats listening to the Archers.

Ah, provinciality, the backbone of Britain. What exactly is the Lalaland equivalent?

The bonds of Motherhood

Its 10:42pm and the baby is snoring beside me, the toddler is finally asleep next door where his grandparents are babysitting while we spend our last few days in the UK before flying to the land of the free. I should be sleeping too, god knows how many times aforementioned baby will have me up in the night feeding, whining, grunting or copying her dad's snoring. Who's not here, so she'll be copying them from memory, but at least I won't have the usual surround sound effect. Yes, i should definately be sleeping.

Not looking through old photos of Ethan and the friends he's known from birth, not searching for big old farmhouses that can accommodate 4 rugby loving dads, 5 raucous children, 4 babies of various shapes, ages and sizes but all with impressive lung capacity, and 4 women who while they know each other thanks to the sheer coincidence of having unprotected sex around the same time, are more than the mum of their parts.

We are reaching the end of an era, us Streatham mums. Via a resurrected thread on mumsnet almost four years ago, I made friend with a group of women all due their babies over the same six months or so as me. Seven of us remain close and four of us have particularly shared in our triumphs, trials and tribulations, tears and tantrums - and those of our families. These women have seen me desperately sad, desperately struggling but utterly happy, utterly triumphant and also very drunk (let's not mention the chucking up all over the RML house, or at least pretend it's adorable because I'm the youngest!).

I've struggled with this weird thing called motherhood, this label put upon me that now defines me in a way that nothing else does, but through it all these women have been there to share in that to. To me they just happen to be mums, who have plied me with bacon and alcohol, birthed my son's best friends and my daughter's first friends, who have become my friends, my lifeline. Here's to you, my Streatham mums, and to the next part of our lives scattered across the globe.