Adventure Mom

This is NOT a Christmas Letter                                       It’s not a ‘see what I’ve/my children/my partner have accomplished. It’s not about where we’ve traveled or what we’ve acquired so much as about how we continue growing into our funny/flawed/fearsome and fearless forms. As I sit at Pete’s sister’s kitchen table with its red vinyl cover, staring at fluted glass pedestal plates of oranges and bananas and procrastinate, er, write, I imagine what I might tell you about the Year in Review. Here’s what didn’t happen: ·          No one won Lotto or a major award. ·          No one landed a new (full-time) job. ·          No one bought or sold a house or new car. ·          No one gained acceptance into a major (or minor) program of study. ·          No one bought a pet or birthed a baby. ·          No one got engaged or married. Dullsville? Hardly. Our lives are a celebration of the Ordinary. By Ordinary, I mean: ·          No one got fired. ·    

Remember December It’s nine o’clock in the evening. I’m standing where water meets sand – the ocean’s tide line. I’ve come to listen to waves, to watch lines of water advance and retreat. The day has been extraordinarily ordinary: a Santa parade, chat with new friends, a new (used) bike for Fiona, a run on the ocean road with Finley alongside on his bike; erection of a Christmas tree; a late dinner of shrimp on the Barbie with loads of garlic. It was sunny and beautiful and gorgeously easy. No one got hurt or sick. No one died or even threw a major tantrum. I've come to the ocean to give thanks, just as in the past, I've come to offer tears. Three years ago, the kids and I were caught in a tangle of sickness.  I shuttled between home, hospital and work while Sean was critically ill. Enmeshed in the web, you can’t see beyond the filaments that cloud your vision. You can’t imagine the snarl will unravel, releasing you to new life. December third would’ve been my thi

Kiwi Thanks More, Please I planned to skip Thanksgiving in New Zealand this year. We did it last year. I cooked the Best Turkey Ever, and celebrated with my American kids, Kiwi friends, Spanish friends and Pete’s folks. Pete was absent. He was flying with a student when clouds and strong winds forced them to land on the other side of the mountains. They safely returned four days later. We saved Pete a few scraps of turkey and a sliver of pumpkin pie. It's a Luxury This year, as I settle into the new-old-Kiwi life, I’m living as someone who means to stay.  As Someone on a Budget. It means saying ‘no’ to opportunities where I’d previously said, ‘yes.’ Thanksgiving is a luxury. It’s not a Kiwi holiday. Turkeys cost fifty to more than one-hundred dollars, depending on size. Preparing the entire dinner, providing wine, other drinks and dessert could easily cost two to three times the same meal in the States. Also, our rental house includes a small galley kitchen wit

Thanksgiving Swim Giving Thanks an Ocean Away I did something today I've never done on Thanksgiving - jumped in the ocean. The water in New Zealand's Bay of Plenty is shockingly, refreshingly cold in November. I'd just come off a two-peat of The Mount's summit and it felt good. In a silly, crazy way. I was thinking how grateful I was to be swimming at this time of year; how thankful I am for heaps of people, places and experiences I knew nothing about two years ago, when I prepared my disastrous Cape Town Thanksgiving feast. So here, in ten minutes (ooh - set the oven timer!) is the What-I'm-Thankful-For-2012-List :      1)  Two healthy, (mostly) joyful children  2)  A loving partner who tolerates my moods, quirks and antics  (and probably really, really wishes I wrote fiction). 3)  The fact none of my immediate family is seriously  ill 4)  Sean's gift of love, his 'what-if?' nature and his teaching of what it means to live in a committed re

Thanks, Kmart Lady New Zealand is going to give us the boot. At least, that’s what I’m thinking as I try, for the third time, to print passport photos of my PAHT-nah, Pete. I need the pictures to include in our residency application, which my immigration advisor will submit ASAP. Pete and I swear we’ve already sent her these pictures, and yet – they’re not there. No matter, I’ll send my beloved to the mall for new, white background, official passport pics. Only the weekend’s passed. We left town and FORGOT TO GET THE PICTURES. During the work week, Pete doesn’t stop for anything – not lunch, not errands – bathroom breaks? Not sure. Not asking (He and Finley may have more in common than I thought). You can see why I’m nervous these pictures won’t happen. If we wait another week to get them, well, that’s another week we delay the residency application. It’s another week closer to my work visa expiring (end of June). We’re told it may take a year for Immigration to process

Gro-Vember – Together and Apart Can this relationship withstand facial hair? Dueling Mo's  Less than a week after November started (and with it, “Movember,” which encourages men to grow a mustache, goatee or beard), and just two days after Pete told me he wasn’t going to shave for the rest of the month, the seams of our family blanket were starting to split. I couldn’t look at him. I started avoiding him (which isn’t that hard, because lately Pete’s been working 12-hour days). It sounds silly – ostracize your mate because he’s altered (and not to your liking) his appearance?  I’ve been through a hell of a lot worse – try looking at your husband when he’s bloated with 30 pounds of IV fluids, or after he drops 30 pounds because he can’t eat. Pronounced eye sockets and purplish-red skin are not sexy. My late husband, Sean, had all of that – and more. Fuzzy Associations Here’s the thing – for the first week Sean lay unconscious in Intensive Care, he remained uns

Grow-Vember If ya can't beat 'em, join 'em I’m shoveling heaping tablespoons of hazelnut spread into my mouth. Then alternating with forkfuls of peanut butter. It tastes yummy. For the first few spoons, anyway. Let me explain: It’s Monday morning, and I’ve just returned from a glorious 14k (8.5 mile) run. I started just before sunrise at very low tide – the kind of tide that renders the beach enormous - like another kingdom has washed ashore. I ran up The Mount, and just because I could, ran around it, too. On my way back, down the long stretch of Marine Parade, I imagine coming home to the PAHT-nah, who, after a scraggly weekend (Pete often ditches the razor for several days), must surely have scraped away the stubble I’ve been staring at for four days – the beard that’s way past sexy, well on its way to just-got-outta-jail.  Pete, with facial overgrowth, looks slightly sinister. One week sans shaving adds ten years to his appearance. Beyond that – well

The Next Big Thing -Or- The Next Thing Someone Will Get a Copy of by Mistake and Read Cover-to-Cover because They didn't have Anything Else to Read in the Loo. First of all, The Next Big Thing is not me. Or anything I'll write. The Next Big Thing is the newest i-Phone, latest Google application or most recent explosion of plastic crap peddled as a kid's toy (think 'Trashies' or 'Beyblades') from China. Those are Next Big Things .  Oh, you mean The Next Big Thing  in writing? Hmm. Okay. That's the title of a series of questions writers are asking other writers to answer. Someone tags you ( you're it ) to say you're writing something great or cool (hence, ' The Next Big Thing ' title). You then attempt to respond in a way that acknowledges their prescience while maintaining your humility (quite easy when you perch on the lowest rung of the writer's ladder known as the Blogosphere). So, let me first acknowledge my friend, Lee