Rain, that’s a given. Grey skies, massive puddles, and umbrellas the size of small countries– these are all just part of my everyday. Rain doesn’t faze me. Find yourself in the midst of a monsoon with kids climbing the walls and a refrigerator devoid of milk? I’m your girl. I’ll have those kids slickered up, strapped in, and I will lead them through the gale to the safe and warm harbor of the nearest (and by near I mean about a mile) grocery store without batting an eye. Yes, London has taught me many things over the last year and a half, one of which is that a little (or a lot) of rain isn’t going to slow this Buggy Pushing-Power Walking-Wellie Wearing-Child Dragging-Who needs a minivan-American mom! But snow…

“Come on Blake, get your hat, we’re LATE!” I shout as I simultaneously zip up my coat, turn off the lights with my elbow, and grab my keys off the counter with my teeth. It’s the last day of school before Christmas break which means an early dismissal at 2:15, a fact I nearly forgot as I was knee-deep in socks, toothbrushes, and travel size shampoo while packing our fleet of suitcases for the trip back to America tomorrow. This will be the fourth time we’ve made this journey across the ocean since we moved to London in August of ’08, so you’d think that I would be a pro at trans-Atlantic family travel prepping by now, right? …Nope, you’d be wrong!

Travel played a big part of our 2009 calendar, and while I still manage to work myself into frazzled ball of chaos, each experience has taught me a little something. For example in February we made our first visit back to the States, and I learned that jet lag + two kids under 5 + over 400 miles of driving = an entirely new definition of exhaustion! Seeing friends and family after six months on the opposite side the ocean did make up for it though!
In April we decided to finally take the bull by the horns and rent a car for a family road trip. We got to see Stonehenge and the gorgeous city of Bath, and I learned that if you leave the windows open for an hour or so the rental company will never know that your kids found a way to turn carsickness into a competitive sport!
In May we got to play host to my brothers, Eric and Adam, and THEY learned that bangers and mash, surprisingly, aren’t as appetizing as they sound. And if you bunk at the Hiserote’s we will definitely show you a proper good time, but you’ll earn your keep in hours of Lego playing with Nolan and Blake.
That same month we took a week holiday in Greece, and I was reminded that while I have adapted to the damp English weather, few things in life can beat watching the sunset behind Mt. Olympus while listening to the waves crash on the beach – smiling at your husband over a Pina Colada, knowing the kids are in the professional care of heavenly resort daycare!
Summer went by quickly. Jeromy was able go on a 4 day sailing trip with some people from work. He also flew to Scotland for the British Open golf tournament. I stayed home and, in turn, racked up TONS of “Wife of the Year” credit to be cashed in at a date yet to be determined!
In July Jeromy’s brother Tim and his wife Katie spent a couple of weeks with us. While we didn’t make them eat bangers and mash, they also paid their dues in lots of Lego playing! It was so good to see them and be around family again.
My parents arrived at the end of August for two wonderful weeks of sightseeing, cookie baking, long walks, and yes – MORE Lego playing. We took them to Wales for a weekend, and they got to see for themselves how Nolan and Blake duke it out in competitive carsickness! Saying goodbye to mom and dad was especially hard, but I knew that we’d be packing up for this trip back to the States for Christmas, and I spent most of the fall looking forward to the next jaunt over the Atlantic, which brings me back to today, the day before we leave…the snow.

With Blake bundled from head to toe in a hand-me-down snow suit I found upstairs in the attic, I strap him into the buggy, close the garage door, and take off as fast as I can towards Nolan’s school. Large wet snowflakes are falling in a thick sheet of white, and the sidewalk beneath my boots is slick. By the time I make it to the playground other parents, non-tardy parents, are holding the mittened hands of their kids and making their way to their cars or the bus stop. It’s freezing outside yet I’m sweating like a pig when I sheepishly open the door to Nolan’s classroom fully expecting him to read me the “You’re Late” riot act. To my surprise he’s all smiles as he gathers up his book bag and coat and launches excitedly into his news that he won a coloring competition today and he fell off the slide but didn’t cry…I think those two events were unrelated, but he’s talking so fast it’s hard to be sure!
“Get your glasses and let’s get going.” I say impatiently as I shove drawings and worksheets into his book bag. “Um, I think I left them at church.” He replies uncertainly
“You left them where??” Apparently this morning the teachers had marched all the students down the road to a Christmas service at Holy Trinity Church, a send off for their last day of school. I pop the brake on the buggy and run back to find a teacher and get to the bottom of this.
“Oh yes, I do remember him taking them off.” she says. “You can probably walk over there and pick them up.”
I give her a tight smile and thank her, all the while wondering why someone didn’t think to tell my 5 year old to PUT YOUR GLASSES BACK ON! I march Nolan out of his room and back to Blake waiting patiently in the stroller. Ok, I think, I CAN do this. Never mind its 20 degrees out and snowing. Never mind that I have hours of packing waiting for me at home. I will smile, make the best of this, and embrace this as just another experience in my life as a pedestrian mom. “Alright boys, we’re off!” We begin our walk heading the opposite direction of our house, and I’m not entirely sure where I’m going. Nolan prattles on about his day, who hit whom at recess, and who was getting what for Christmas. Blake just sits quietly, bundled up and probably sweating himself. I try not to slip on the ice and try not to curse whoever it was that kept telling me London never gets snow. We walk and walk and walk and walk until finally I see the sign pointing to Holy Trinity Church.
“There it is Mom, that’s where we went this morning.” Nolan tells me. I say a quick prayer that someone will be there to let us in, and breathe a sigh of relief when a kind older woman opens the door and welcomes us in from the cold. I explain that my son had been here earlier with his school and he left his glasses in his chair. She laughs and says that happens all the time. She leads us into the sanctuary and helps search the rows. I take a second and look around. Bright red poinsettias are arranged around the alter. White pillar candles set up along the side walls, and a big Christmas tree fills the foyer. Nolan and this woman, God bless her, walk from row to row, chatting and becoming fast friends. I look out the large window to my right. Big flakes of snow are still coming down, casting everything in a soft white haze. As much as I try to, I can’t deny it is beautiful. I take a deep breath. So ok, walking an extra two miles in the cold isn’t the way I planned on spending this afternoon. Yes, Nolan is absent minded and forever losing things. I can choose to wring his neck and stress out over lost time and inconvenience, or I can take stock of all my blessings in this situation. My boys, who have been known to melt down over the walk from the kitchen to their bedrooms, are both in good moods and completely content – despite being cold and probably tired in their own right. The door to this lovely little church could have been locked and Nolan could have been facing a month of blurry vision, but instead a warm smile greeted us and welcomed us in. Somehow I know my huge to-do list will get done. We will manage to fit everything into our suitcases, survive baggage check and security, make it to Nebraska, and be home for Christmas. Nolan returns triumphantly to me, glasses in hand. The woman pats him on the head and leads us back to the front door.
“Thanks again for all your help.” I offer gratefully.
“Never mind,” she replies. “Have a very Merry Christmas!” She waves as we step back into the snow and begin our trek back home.

Moving overseas has been a challenging, eye opening, and overall incredibly rewarding experience. God has been so good about protecting us, blessing us, and reminding me every day that as much as I like to think otherwise – I am not in control. Plans change, people move, kids throw up, and life happens. And through it all His Word is unchanging, His love never ending, and His mercies new every morning.

I hope this finds you having wonderful Christmas season. Our door is always open if anyone wants to come visit. The rain really isn’t so bad. We do occasionally see the sun. And someone once told me, it never snows in London!

When I was 19 years old I took a giant leap into adulthood. I planted my Doc Martins firmly on the yellowing linoleum floor of independence and I got my own apartment. Well, it wasn’t exactly my apartment, I had two other roommates. But it wasn’t my parents’ house, and it wasn’t a dorm room the size of a broom closet. Tens of square feet of bare white walls, two whole bathrooms, and a kitchen with an actual stove and refrigerator. You remember that feeling, right? Like nothing could stop you! You could run for president, or become an astronaut, or eat Cheetos for dinner in your pajamas. Ah, the idealism of youth.

Shortly after moving in I decided that I didn’t want to stare at the white walls anymore, so I went to Hobby Lobby and found one of those cardboard prints from the bin with a hundred other cardboard prints all stacked together for broke college students to flip through and pretend we were decorating. One caught my eye so I bought it, along with a cheap frame, and took it home. Feeling like a Gen Xer Bob Villa I hammered a little nail and hung up my $8 piece of art. I stepped back and admired my work. The “painting” is a scene of a street market along the river in St. Tropez (I know this only because it is titled on the bottom boldly St. Tropez). People are sitting at a cafe sipping wine, a man plays a violin, a street artist is painting portraits, and three row boats are docked just below with French names like Petit Fada and Pitchoune. I didn’t know the first thing about art, still don’t, but I loved all the bright colors - the golds, reds, turquoise, and blues. It made those bare white walls suddenly seem alive, homey.

A year later the roommates and I traded in this starter apartment for a larger duplex on the wrong side of the tracks…literally, trains all night long shaking the dime store foundation of this college town hole - but hey, I had my own room now. St. Tropez came with me and I hung it in my bedroom. A few years later I found myself in yet another apartment with a new roommate, just one, and this one had given me a ring and a promise of ’till death do us part. Despite his affinity for Mountain Dew and chess, I thought he was pretty cute - still do! He didn’t bring much to the table decor-wise, at least nothing I allowed past the threshold, so we hung St. Tropez in our dining room/living room/kitchen. To date, my bargain bin masterpiece has had nine different addresses over the last decade or so, and it always seems to fit - no matter the color scheme or room arrangement, there has always been a place. Today it is hung in my dining room here in London. When I first walked into this room 6 months ago I was immediately drawn to the far wall, lined from top to bottom and along both sides with turquoise cabinets. A large blank white wall in the middle stared back at me. Who paints cabinets turquoise? What in the world am I going to put here? It didn’t take long for me to figure it out. I pulled St. Tropez out from a box that had made it through customs and survived weeks on a ferry. I peeled off the brown wrapping and bubble tape. There was already a nail in place, dead center. I hung my picture on the wall and stepped back to admire my work. Pulling the room together, in the way only St. Tropez can, the turquoise cabinets suddenly didn’t seem out of place at all. Everything fit.

This is what I was thinking about somewhere over the Atlantic as I sipped my complimentary beverage and stared at boring in-flight TV. We were on our way back to London after a whirlwind visit to the States. I was feeling a bit homesick, but not quite sure which home that was for. We arrived in Kansas City ten days earlier, back to the birthplace of our children and many, many fun memories. Our dear friends, Troy and Beth, graciously agreed to put us up for the brief 2 days we would spend there. I kept feeling like we should be able to hop in our mini-van and pull into our own driveway - only the mini-van and driveway belonged to someone else now. It was a very odd sense of displacement, feeling so at home - yet knowing we were just visitors in this city that came to mean so much to us. Two days later we crammed back into the rental car and drove 5 hours to Norfolk, NE to see Jeromy’s mom, brother, and sister-in-law. It felt so good to be around family again! The boys ate up all the attention, made a complete mess of my dear mother-in-law’s once clean house, and Jer and I relaxed and even slept in a bit! Again the time passed far too quickly and it was time to hit the road for the final leg of the journey to my parents’ house in Henderson - this time only a 2 1/2 hour drive! As excited as I was to shake the H-Town dust from my boots at 18, it still always feels like I’m coming home when we turn the corner onto Front Street, pass the hospital, school, pharmacy, and pull onto the driveway in Parkview Court! Once again the boys gladly accepted all the attention that was heaped on them by their Papa and Mema and all of their uncles (and Aunt Nicole too, who is such a good sport and lets Nolan beat her in ping pong!) The part of me that is perpetually ten years old still got excited about my mom’s desserts and the endless supply of sugary breakfast cereals. Before I knew it, it was time to head back to the airport, elbow our way through customs, and board another plane that would take us…home.

So there I was, half-way between two continents, feeling my heart tug in both directions. I feel so blessed to have the friends, family, and life we left back in the States. But I’ve come to be so grateful for the new friends and the new life we’ve made here in London. I guess leaving everything familiar forced me to take another giant leap in adulthood. The yellowed linoleum has been upgraded to a nice ceramic tile, and I have traded in those Doc Martins for more sensible walking shoes. But every once and a while when I’m sitting at my dining room table, in my pajamas, eating Cheetos for dinner, I look up fondly at this piece of my past that has traveled through the decade agelessly - and I know that no matter what, for me, home is where I hang my St. Tropez.

I’m taking a bit of a detour from my usual blogging to call on all of you who read our posts to lift up baby Cora Paige McClenahan in prayer. She is the 10 month old niece of our very dear friends Bill and Olivia Good. Cora was diagnosed just last Thursday with Stage 4 Neuroblastoma, cancer. It came as a complete shock to her parents, Joel and Jessi, who took her in to see their pediatrician for an ear infection, lack of appetite, and some other abdominal symptoms. I’m sure they never in their wildest dreams expected to get this news. This is an excerpt from their blog.

This is not a journey we ever imagined that we would be traveling. Especially not with our precious little girl. But here we are, trying to take it one step at a time.

Thursday afternoon we went to an appointment to make sure Cora’s ear infections had cleared up. Joel decided to come along because we were frustrated that she kept getting sick. I felt like she just wasn’t herself and we had noticed a few things we were concerned about. Cora’s stomach seemed very tight, she had gotten two “mystery” black eyes recently, and she wasn’t eating very much. Our pediatrician decided to do some blood work and x-ray her abdomen. After lots of waiting he came back into our room with tears in his eyes. He told us that from the x-ray he could tell that Cora’s liver was enlarged. He said there is a chance it could be nothing, but in his experience it is usually related to cancer. We left his office in shock and headed straight to Wesley. I don’t think Joel and I hardly said a word to each other the whole way to Wichita. We just cried.

Cora is in a hospital in Wichita undergoing lots of tests. They are waiting on some results which will determine if she has a certain type of this cancer that is fairly easy to treat and responds well to chemo, or the type is difficult and does not respond well. For more information, to make a donation to the family, and to keep up to date on this beautiful little girl visit

http://themcclenahans.blogspot.com/

“Now to Him who is able to do far more abundantly beyond all that we ask or think, according to the power that works within us.” Ephesians 3:20

You are comfortable. You are settled into the groove of life where the routine is somewhat predictable, over-scheduled at times, sure, but familiar. You have good friends, a house you love, mini-van, the whole middle-America suburbs package. Then one day in between checking email and doing laundry you get an IM from your husband that goes something like this:
Him: What would you think about moving to London?
You’re about to hand him a big Yeah Right when instead you decide to let the line out a little further.
You: Sounds interesting, tell me more.
And from that moment on your life becomes a roller coaster going warp speed. Before you fully have time to wrap your mind around the possibility of this unimaginable relocation you are boarding a plane and jetting off to England for a “familiarization” trip – as if this will somehow make everything less foreign (read, scary) . Your mind is still fuzzy from jet lag as you’re sitting in the backseat of your real estate agent’s car headed to the 15th house of the day, so you can decided if you will be a Souf Londoner, Soufwest Londoner, or Soufeast Londoner. You blink, and there’s a for sale sign in your front yard, you are buying suitcases the size of small countries, and you say good bye to the mini-van and everything and everyone that ‘s kept your life so..regular. You think that there is no way you ‘ll ever feel at home here - in the land of left lane driving, tea time, and the metric system. But you push through those first difficult weeks. Before you know it your oldest son is starting primary school - uniform, book bag, the whole deal. He quickly settles in, and it doesn’t take long for that 1 mile bike ride to and from school each day feel like just another part of life. You work hard to make your new house a home for your kids and husband. You hang pictues, you bake cookies, and pretty soon you find yourself into a new normal. It’s different, but oddly enough it feels much the same too. You still go to the grocery store, (although it’s on a bike and milk is suddenly much heavier than you remember), you still do laundry, and go to church, and pay bills, and check email.

It’s Christmas time, your first Christmas away from home. Your son has a break from school and your husband has some vacation time to use, so you plan a trip to Paris – a place you’ve dreamed of visiting for as long as you can remember. Your two little boys are largely unimpressed by the historic, cultural, and artisic grandour of this amazing city (and they take plenty of opportunites to let you know this) – but somehow you still manage to cram in a week’s worth of sightseeing into 2 days. Beneath the Eiffel Tower you fall madly in love with your husband all over again because he has searched high and low and finally found crepes au chocolate, for you.

After spending your very first Christmas morning in your own living room, you begin packing suitcases again for a 5 day trip to Austria. Who would have thought a couple of months ago when you started attending little East Sheen Baptist church (filled mostly with people your grandparents’ age), you’d meet another young couple, here in London for a job transfer, and you would just click! A few dinners at each others’ houses, coffee at a local cafe, and they have invited you to their family home near Salzburg . They pick you up at the airport and immediately begin giving you the grand tour of this beautiful city nestled at the foot of the Alps. You go sledding, you eat wienerschnitzel, you even get to ski on the most amazing slopes with a view that can only be described as hand-painted by God!

It’s New Year’s Eve. Having spent the last week living out of a suitcase and learning the ins and outs of border control you are more than content to stay at home with a glass of wine and relax. You will try and make it to midnight, but it’s 8:30 and you can already feel your eyelids getting heavy. You lay your head back on the couch and close your eyes. You let your shoulders droop, the muscles in your arms and legs slowly go slack. You breath deeply as the hectic frenzy of the last week…the last year really… floats away.

You can’t believe it’s been just over 4 months since you bid a fond farewell to Hy-Vee and drive-thru everythings. You still wake up some mornings and shake your head in wonder that you REALLY are here. Last New Year you would have laughed in the face of anyone who suggested you’d be ringing in 2009 in London. It’s been a year unlike any you could have fathomed. What once seemed daunting and foreign now is just everyday and familiar. Somewhere along the way, without you even really realizing it, a new groove of life has been formed. You have friends, a house you love, and…although there’s no mini-van, you don’t even miss it that much any more! Maybe it’s fatigue, maybe it’s the wine, maybe it’s the after-glow of holiday bliss…but as you drift off to sleep, ready to wake to a fresh new year, there’s one thing you know – you are comfortable.

Paul Olszewski, director of windows at Macy’s Herald Square, offers his designer tips for decorating a [picture perfect] tree.
* [Use] at least 50 lights per foot — or, for extra brilliance, 100 per foot.
* Take a step back and check for areas that need more decoration. “There’s no real formula here, but in my opinion, the less green you see, the better.”
source - Family Circle Magazine - December 2008

It’s 6:00 and I’m in the middle of another all too familiar dinner time melt down. It’s been dark outside for 2 hours already, the boys decided 30 minutes ago they were starving and it’s another 15 minutes before the timer will ding on the oven and my piranhas can be fed. So we’re biding our time as we usually do.

Them: PLEEEEEEASE, just one cookie!
Me: Do you think I’m nuts? There will be NO cookies before dinner! Go play blocks.

Like I said, the usual. You know the drill. Suddenly the doorbell rings calling a temporary truce to our battle.
” Da-Dee” Blake shouts as he waddles towards the front door.
“No, better!” Nolan counters, “The tree’s here!” I stumble over the boys and throw open the front door. Sure enough a man bundled up in a thick down coat, wool stocking cap, and well worn work gloves stands at our threshold with a gorgeous, thick balsam fir.
“Where would you like me to put it, madam? I direct him to our living room where, earlier, I had cleared a spot in the corner promising the little guys that later that day we would have our very own Christmas tree to put there. Going above and beyond the call of duty, I’m sure, he even takes the time to put the tree into the stand, straighten it, and make sure it’s secure before wishing us a good night and heading out.
“What do you think, guys?” I ask excitedly.
“It’s big,” Nolan replies “And it has a smell.”
“Well, that’s because it’s a real tree, not an artificial one like we have back in Kansas.” I inhale deeply. Ah yes! I’d almost forgotten the aroma of a Christmas tree. The hint of pine and bark mixed with that unmistakable wift of winter night air that you can almost feel, more than smell. Growing up my family always used to get a real tree. We’d watch Dad jam it into the stand, screw the trunk in tight, and repeat this a few more times until Mom conceeded that it was, indeed, straight. My three brothers and I would all help hang homemade wooden ornaments we’d painted ourselves, throw on great clumps of silver tinsel, and wait excitedly for Mom to reveal this year’s Chris Mouse. Between the years of 1988 and 1997 we collected these one of a kind Hallmark ornaments, with a new one coming out each year. They all featured a little mouse sitting on a star, or roasting marshmallows, or some other fun setup. It was the highlight of the tree trimming festivities to take them out one by one, light them up, and find the perfect branches to hang them. Even now, all grown up, I get a nostalgic thrill every year when I see each of those ten little mice still hanging on Mom’s tree. I’ll miss that this year.
“Let’s decorate it now!” shouts Nolan, snapping me back to the present.
“Well we don’t have any lights or ornaments yet.” I reply. We’ve found that here in London Christmas is a very festive, albeit simpler, occasion. There are some lights on the houses outside, but not the out-do-your-neighbor-Clark- Griswald type we’re used to. And you can certainly buy tree decorations, but they are a bit harder to come by and much more expensive than the box of 200 coordinating balls for $5 we’d find at Hobby Lobby. I promise Nolan that very soon we’ll go shopping for some ornaments. Maybe we’ll make our own, I offer. He gives me a funny look and runs off to play Batman. The attention span of a fruit fly that one!
Watching my kids scamper off, I touch the soft needles on the branches of our tree and contemplate the article I’d read earlier from Family Circle entitled Tree Trimming 101, which promised to give tips on how to create the “picture perfect” Christmas tree. This tree is 7 feet tall, I think. According to this expert designer, am I really supposed to use 700 lights or suffer a tree that is less-than-brilliant? And what’s so wrong with seeing the green? It’s a tree, after all - not a display rack. Hmmm. I remember back to all those Christmases all those years ago. It was never about having a Macy’s Display Window tree. It was about the joy of being together as a family, making milestones and memories. Sure the construction paper candy canes and sloppily painted wooden stars and wreathes were a bit on the not-so-designer side, but in our little eyes that tree sparkled like Rockefeller Center.

The timer suddenly dings on the oven. “It’s ready!!” Nolan screams. He and Blake stampede into the kitchen like hungry wolves. I give my bare tree one last look and instead of bemoaning all that I don’t have, I offer up a quick prayer of thanks to my Heavenly Father for blessing me far beyond what I deserve. Life can get crazy, there’s no doubt about it. My two little guys can drive me up the wall (not to mention the big guy who is due home any minute!) but this year, maybe more than ever before, I’m reminded that it’s the simple things in life that count. Our tree may not have “brilliance,” but that’s ok. My boys wouldn’t remember it even if it did! What I do want them to remember is that Christmas has nothing to do with tricked out trees and all things shiney. Long ago in Bethlehem our Savior came into this world in the meekest and most humble of ways. No fanfare, no circus. God’s fulfillment of a promise made centuries before lay in a manger, in a stable, in a small town with no room in the inn. It’s taken moving across the ocean to get me to appreciate this time of year for what it really is. Without the calendar full of holiday parties, pressure to make my home look like a Pottery Barn ad, and marathon of driving to visit family - when you strip all that away - what you have left is all that really matters: A God who loved us so much that He sent his one and only Son to save a world that could not save itself. We’ve been blinded by the glitter, I’m as guilty as anyone. But this year when I celebrate the season and look at our tree…I’m going to see the green.

I blame the boots. I’m bruised but not broken, sore but still standing, and yes, I think I’ll blame the new boots.
“Ok kiddo, get your shoes on and don’t forget to put your homework book in your bag.”
8:30, right on schedule. I just need to get Blake’s diaper changed, put everyone’s coats on, and we’ll be out of here with time to spare to get to school. I love mornings like this! Everyone up and out of bed by 7, breakfast finished by 7:30. More than enough time for me to leisurely enjoy a cup of coffee and flip through the latest edition of Good Housekeeping (amazingly they agreed to transfer my subscription overseas) and get Nolan to school by 8:50. I quickly load the cereal bowls and spoons into the dishwasher while mentally running though my checklist for the day. Laundry, vacuuming, order groceries, email mom…nothing out of the ordinary, just the stuff of life. I’m about to grab my own coat when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror above the fireplace. Yikes! Ok, I’m definitely not one of the prom queen moms on the playground, I don’t even own a pair of skinny jeans, but I do draw the line at making the walk of shame past the monkey bars in my pjs. No problem, I think, I’ll just run upstairs and change real quick…still on schedule.
“Grab Blake’s coat too while you’re at it, Nolan!” I yell over my shoulder as I dash up the stairs two at a time. I quickly peruse through my closet in search of some jeans that don’t have anything crusty on them. I trade in the flannel pajama top for the first t-shirt I see. Next, some sensible tennis shoes. I look down at the bottom of my closet and my eye catches something. Ah, I’d almost forgotten. For a second, time stands still. A smile slowly creeps up one corner of my mouth as I eye my latest find. Carmel tan leather with hand stitching, comfortable yet chic, casual yet trendy, the perfect trouser boots - and at a bargain price nonetheless! These were the catch of my weekend hunt and I hadn’t even broken them in yet. I check the clock on my nightstand, 8:35, still fine on time. I decide that my new boots can’t possibly wait in the bottom of a dark closet for the perfect occasion to hit the town, practical or not, I will wear them this morning! The resolution in that somewhat shallow decision gives me the tiniest bit of a rush. As I slip my foot in it dawns on me that if I’m going to wear the new boots, the Kansas City Marathon 2006 t-shirt I have on will just not do. No big deal, just need to find another shirt. Problem. My weekend of shopping (and other such trivialities) has caused a bit of a traffic jam in the clean laundry lane. Gotta be something here, I mumble to myself. Bingo! Black turtleneck sweater - classic, warm…clean. Off comes the t-shirt to join the others lying in wait for a trip to the washing machine. Jeans clean - check; sweater - check; boots - check, check. One final look over in the full length mirror behind my door. Oh, this will never do. I’ve managed to put together a presentable outfit (with ultra-fine footwear mind you) but somehow replacing the grungy t-shirt only serves to accentuate my toussled and - I’m not too proud to admit - slightly greasy hair. Did I mention that the price for a long cup of coffee and magazine flipping is the luxury of a hot shower? 8:40, no time for a shower. Next best thing, ponytail. I fly into the bathroom thankful I’d neglected to make that hair appointment to maintain the short bob I thought, for some reason, was a good idea 3 months ago. A few quick twists of my rubber band, voila! Well I’ve come this far, I think, might as well do it right. I dab on a touch of mascara and a hint of lip gloss, something called shining diamonds or some other equally non-descript name. I race back down the stairs only to find Team Hiserote’s two star players warming the bench, or rather the couch, zoning out to some Nick Jr. show. 8:45.
“Come on you guys, we are SOOO late!” I scream. “Coats, hats, bags, NOW!” So ok, I might have been taking out my own vain time wasting on them just a little bit. I never said I was perfect at this mom stuff! In a tornado of scarves and shoelaces we blow out the backyard and into our tiny garage/laundry room/shed and I scramble to buckle the boys into our latest transportation evolution: The bike and trailer. Shortly after moving into our house and Nolan starting school we made the decision to hang up the double stroller and upgrade to a more convenient time saving method of getting around East Sheen. My once 15 minute walk to school is now a mere 6 minute bike ride…and on this day I have exactly 4 minutes to the opening of those big double doors. With Nolan and Blake both firmly belted into their tow-behind trailer I open the garage door and sail down the street as fast as my legs can pedal. It’s another one of those lovely England mornings, the ground still wet from last night’s rain, the trees desperately clinging to their yellow and orange leaves. The sun blanketing everything in that delicious fall glow that seems to last for but a moment. I see none of this though, I am focused on one thing and one thing only. Making it to school before those wide double doors close, thus forcing us to enter through (gasp!) the front office! I round the corner onto Fife Road, the homestretch. I find myself oddly alone on these streets that are usually bustling with parents and buggies and carpools. Wow we are late, I think. But no, I zero in only on the task at hand. Up ahead I can see the arched sign Holy Trinity CE Primary School beckoning like a lighthouse to a sailor. Oh I am good, I think smugly. I give the brakes a gentle squeeze as we begin coasting downhill. For the first time since I dashed down the stairs I let myself relax just a bit. The wind blowing against my face has that early morning chill, refreshing, I think is the word. A red compact car rounds the corner ahead turning onto Fife Road, approaching us. The streets are narrow, and a van is parked at the curb a few yards in front of me making any two-way traffic impossible. Knowing there is no way the red compact and I will be able to pass each other I grip my brakes and plan on slowing down to let him pass. What happens next happens so quickly I don’t even have time to react. All I know is that one minute I’m firmly in control, the next I’m flying off the side of the bike. My right shoulder hits the pavement first and I land with a thud. Instinctively my hands shoot out to brace the rest of my body. I can feel little bits of gravel dig into my palms. I lay there in the street for, maybe, a half a second before the panic grips me like a vise. The trailer, the red compact! I jerk my head up and the “mother bear” instinct pulses through my veins like a shot of morphine and adrenaline. I expect to see the bike and trailer flung out into the middle of the road, after all I had to have flown a good ten feet in the air, right? To my surprise when I lift my head I’m eye to eye with Nolan and Blake who are staring at me open mouthed from behind the thick plastic rain cover that encloses them in the trailer like a pod. I scan to the right and left to get my bearings. We’ve come to a stop just a few yards behind the white van, apparently I didn’t fly as far off as I thought. The red compact is pulled over on the opposite side of the street and a door opens as a man in his thirties dressed in a business suit steps out. He shuts his door and jogs across the street.
“Are you all right mam?” He calls, concerned. “You took quite a spill there.” By this time I’ve regained my wits enough to see that the kids are fine, all of my limbs are indeed intact, and my pride may be bruised deeper than anything else.
“Oh I think I’m fine, thank you.” I respond feebly. “I have no idea what happened.”
“Well this might be part of the problem,” he points to the bike. “Your chain has come completely off!” He proceeds to reattach the chain and set the gears for me, which is a good thing because I would have no idea how to do that. With the bike back in proper working order he asks again if I’m alright.
“Really I’m fine, thank you so much for your help though. We really must get on with it if I’m going to get this one to school.” I nod towards Nolan. Mr. Red Compact heads back to his car and I remount the bike and hesitantly resume pedaling towards school. No point in hurrying now. I take my time down the rest of the hill, cautious with every bump and turn. We approach the school gate and I come to a stop, gingerly swinging one leg over the seat and walk the bike and trailer onto the playground, which by this time is deserted. I park next to the fence at the edge of the blacktop as we do every day and unzip the trailer to lift Nolan and Blake out. They look up at me, the concern obvious in their little eyes.
“Are you ok mommy?” Nolan asks. “You fell down hard, do you need a band-aid?” I scoop him up in my arms. “Mommy’s fine, nothing to worry about. ” I kiss his forehead and set him down. Next I pick up Blake who looks at me for a second, then points to monkey bars. “Go, Go!” Apparently he’s not fazed! With Blake on my hip and Nolan’s hand in mine we make our way to, you guessed it, the front office. With all the new security measures in schools these days all entrances are locked promptly at 8:55, with the main office door being the only exception. We head in this way and the receptionist gives me the “look” as she buzzes us in. So much for avoiding the walk of shame. I take Nolan into his class where he runs to join his friends for Circle Time, already in progress. I briefly explain to his teacher’s aide why we’re late. She pulls over a dwarf size chair and tells me to sit down and rest while she makes me a cuppa tea. I’m really fine, I assure her, it was nothing. She insists again on bringing me tea. I guess it’s true what they say, tea is the answer to everything in Britain! I thank her again for her kindness and politely decline the tea, I’m sure she has more important things to do, I say. With mother-like tenderness she tells me to be careful as I head home. I smile. The kindness of strangers never ceases to touch me.

Back at home Blake settles in for his morning nap and I plop down on the couch. I put my aching feet up on the coffee table and eye my boots once more. The perfect caramel leather now scuffed up and looking pretty worn, the hand stitching coming loose on one side. I turn my hands over and inspect my scraped up palms, then touch the large bruise forming on my hip. So where’s the life lesson in all this? That bring-it-all-together-aha-moment? I suppose I could say that through this bump in the road, if you will, my eyes are opened to the folly of wasting time on vanity - pride coming before the fall, and all that. Or the Lord let me take this little spill to show me the compassion in people I pass everyday - a good Samaritan when you need it most - something like that. Perhaps. I kick my my feet free and rub my pinched toes. Maybe tomorrow I’ll be a wiser person with another notch in my “live and learn” belt, but for today - bruised and sore -…I just blame the boots!

We are standing on the playground having somehow managed to get up, eat breakfast, get dressed and make the 15 minute walk to this school, all with enough time left over to wait and feel…nervous. All around us kids are running and climbing on the slides laughing and shouting. A swarming hive of 4 and 5 year-old, blue-sweatshirted bees waiting to buzz in through the double doors. Nolan slides a little closer to me and squeezes my hand.
“Why don’t you go play with those kids while we wait to get into your school?” I suggest, putting on my best this-is-totally-normal-nothing-to-worry-about voice. He looks up at me and shakes his head ever so slightly. I can’t really blame him. I, too, feel a bit like we’ve entered another world.

It started three days ago in the school office as I filled out paperwork, met the principal (or head teacher as she’s called here), and completed other required enrollment protocol. I bought the royal blue sweatshirts with the bird logo and the words Holy Trinity Primary School embroidered on the front. I also had to purchase the mustard yellow t-shirt (same logo) and blue athletic shorts he would be required to wear for P.E. A standard issue blue book bag and draw string P.E. bag, and the school secretary sent me off feeling as if I’d just enrolled my 4 year old in the army! I half expected her to tell me to have him in front of the building at 0900 with a crew cut! The uniform, however, would not be complete until we found the other required pieces. So after a weekend of shopping (a.k.a mad hunting) for the proper gray trousers, white polo shirts, gray socks, black dress shoes, and black plimsolls we were set. In case you’re baffled, as we were, plimsolls are flat, canvas slip-on shoes with elastic instead of shoe laces. These are required for P.E. and complete the mustard t-shirt and blue shorts ensemble. Be all you can be, right?

The morning was brisk, the fall leaves brilliant shades of orange and red, and in the air you could almost smell the newly sharpened pencils and pink erasers. With surprisingly minimal protesting, Nolan agreed to pose for the traditional “first day of school” picture outside on our patio. I looked at him through the lens of my camera and for a second I didn’t recognize him. His gray trousers perfectly creased down the center, hair combed, shirt clean - who is this kid? He looked so ready, so excited, so-
“MOM, hurry up we’re going to be late and I have to go potty!”
so Nolan…whew.

Toast was scarfed down in a hurry, final warnings barked about keeping that uniform clean, and here we are. Nolan isn’t the only one feeling the new-kid flutters. I scan the blacktop and try to imagine where I’ll fit in. The mums cluster together in their own familiar groupings - the queen bees of the playground. There are the posh mums with their high heeled boots pulled over skinny jeans, cute jackets and perfectly knotted pashminas. There are the baby mums who, after dropping off their older children, stand around with their buggies and discuss breastfeeding and weight percentages. There are the caregivers, who aren’t mums at all, but rather the nannies who stand-in for working parents. Then there are the ones with whom I think I’ll find the most kinship. The ones who rush in out of breath onto the playground minutes before the school doors open pushing a buggy with one hand and dragging their school child with the other. They are wearing sweatpants, not skinny jeans, and the mad dash to find book bags and lost socks took priority over lip gloss and pashminas. These are the mums I like the best! But my astute observing is suddenly interrupted when I turn my head and see the big double doors open and the flood of parents and blue sweatshirts start rolling into the school.
“Ok, it’s time!” I say excitedly to Nolan. He bites his lower lip and shuffles his feet.
“You’ll come to my class with me, won’t you mommy?”
“I’ll take you in and make sure you’re settled, ok?”
“Ok.” He doesn’t sound convinced.
We follow the crowd through the doors and are met by the smiling face of Miss Ashby. I met her on enrollment day and instantly liked her. A young, pretty, enthusiastic teacher who gave me lots of helpful hints on where I might find these gray trousers, and who seemed genuinely happy my son would be joining her class.
“So this must be Nolan.” (pronounced NOH-len here!) “I’m very happy to meet you! Why don’t you take your book bag into the class with the other children.” Nolan keeps his eyes on the floor and doesn’t let go of my hand.
“Come on honey, I’ll stay with you for a minute.” I offer encouragingly. We walk through the small corridor lined with name tagged coat hooks. At the very end is a hook with a small square of construction paper taped above it.
“Look at that, what does that say?” I point to the name tag.
“…Nolan” He mumbles.
“You see, they’re all ready for you to join the class! You have a coat hook and everything!” He offers up a faint, but definitely there, smile. We hang up his jacket and he firmly grabs my hand again as we make our way to his room. I can see him taking everything in. The art table set up with paints and markers and lots of crisp, white paper. The large cage housing two guinea pigs that are rustling around in wood chips. In one corner there are rows of books, a miniature library of sorts, and a brightly colored carpet on the floor. The teacher’s aide comes over to us and warmly welcomes Nolan to “Topaz” class (all the class rooms have their own color, I suppose to keep things simple and easier for the children to distinguish). She points to the rug and tells him that they will be starting Circle Time soon. We’re going to sing some songs, and have a story…you’ll have a great time, she promises. For the first time since we set foot on the playground my little boy lets go of my hand. He carefully places his book bag with the others in a big box. Still holding Blake, who this whole time has been perched on my hip and waving at everyone he sees, I take a step or two back towards the door. Nolan turns around and sees me backing off. I expect him to run up to me, maybe beg me to stay. But he doesn’t. I can tell he’s scared, and he blinks back tears. But he stays in his classroom. We look at each other for another second or two before I nod my head and gesture for him to go play.
“I love you honey, I’ll be back soon to pick you up.” He nods and bites his lower lip again. I want to run over and pick him up, lay his head on my shoulder and take him home. I’m not ready for this, I think, how did I get here? One minute you’re swadeling him tight holding him to your chest - you blink, and he’s standing in a classroom in his freshly pressed uniform, and you have to leave.
Blake and I turn and walk back through the corridor of coats, through the double doors, and back onto the playground. I turn and take one last look through the windows into “Topaz” class. There I see my Nolan. Standing next to the art table holding a crayon and laughing with some boy with red hair. No tears. No fear. He’s having fun. I watch for another minute or two as the teacher rounds the kids up and instructs them to sit on that brightly colored carpet. Circle time. Nolan follows the crowd like he’s been doing it for months. I smile, and now it’s my turn to blink back tears.

I suppose watching Nolan find his way so quickly here in this foreign room, in a foreign school, in a foreign country I should feel proud. And I do, I am. But I guess there will always be a part of me that remembers how not all that long ago I could close my fingers and fit that tiny hand in my palm. That’s what we do, right? We let them cry so they’ll sleep through the night. We let them fall so they’ll learn how to walk. And we let go of their hands so they can go to Circle Time.

There are many things that I love about living in this house. I love that it is not in the city. I love our blue front door. I love the big windows and hardwood floors that creak with the sound of age and history and home. I love the garden, or what we Americans call the backyard, filled with vines and flowers and lush autumn foliage. But most of all, I love the apple tree.

The fence that separates our garden from our neighbors’ is barely visible from underneath the thick creeping vines and draping branches. The tree is actually rooted on their side but the branches stretch out like long apendages dangling ripe red apples over our patio and small patch of lawn. In the weeks that we’ve lived here I’ve nearly picked clean all the apples on our side for afternoon snacks for the boys, or baking fattening desserts I don’t need. But just over the fence and out of my reach are dozens of the biggest, juiciest looking apples ripened to perfection and swelling with sweet temptation. What lies on the other side of this tree? Do they know they’re living in an orchard of wonder rivaled only, maybe, by the Garden of Eden? Perhaps someday I’ll get a glance into that world and meet the people who hold the key, I think wisfully.

Today someday came.

It is mid-morning on this Saturday and Team Hiserote is busy dashing about sweeping the floor, picking up toys, and doing our best give the impression that we always live in such a clutter-free well kept home. Fresh homemade blueberry muffins and cinnamon rolls have been arranged on the kitchen table and Jeromy is whipping up his famous scrambled eggs. I’m excited because the three other American families from Jeromy’s company who are here temporarily are coming over for brunch. It’s the first real social interaction I’ve had in a while and I jumped at the chance to play hostesses again. In the middle of our chaos the door bell rings. I groan, they’re early…the jig is up. But no, it’s a Chinese woman and her young son. I open the door and find a warm, smiling face. Her name is Shau-Yu (I’ve totally butchered the spelling I’m sure) and her little boy is Brandon. They live in the house next door with her husband Max, her older son Sky, and Max’s aging mother. Shau-Yu invites us to a party they are having for Brandon’s first birthday this afternoon at 2:30. Of course we’ll be there, I reply with a grin! Friendly neighbors…thank you God! Meanwhile we have a fantastic time with our American friends. Between all of us there are seven kids running around having a ball, an endless supply of coffee, and enough food to feed an army. I feel right at home! After a couple of hours everyone begins packing up. It is almost 2:30 and time for us to make our real introduction into the neighborhood.

“Would you care to try some Rice Wine?” Jeromy and I look at each other , shrug, and say sure we’d love to try some. We are sitting in the living room of the house next door admiring family photographs, and interesting knick knacks and collectibles! Max retreats to the kitchen while Shau-Yu shows us pictures of the birthday boy in his traditional Chinese attire. These were taken during the summer holiday when we spent a few weeks with famly in China, she explains . The pride in her young son and the culture she is passing on to him are blissfully obvious. Max returns with what I assume is a bottle of cleaning solvent. I instinctively look to my children fulling expecting to find a stain or spill I must now apologize for. To my surprise there is none and I turn my attention back to Max. He proceeds to pour a clear liquid from this bottle into tiny little sherry size glasses and he hands one to each of us. He explains that this is a traditional Chinese drink , but warns us that it is quite strong. Not wanting to offend or seem like the backwater Americans I’m sure we resembled we both take a sip. If the bottle looked like lighter fluid then the taste certainly matched it! I manage the tiniest sip before the burn in my throat warns me to put on the brakes. Having a pretty low tolerance for things like this anyway I look over at Jeromy, pleased to see that he too is having a hard time getting it down. Max and Shau-Yu graciously don’t make mention of our obvious inexperience with liqueur that could strip paint off the walls, and instead we all look to the front door where a boisterous couple are bounding in waving familiar greetings to all. Max waves us over and introduces us to his sister, Louise, her son Louie, and her partner Jack. I instantly like them. They shake our hands and seem genuinely happy to make our acquaintance. Noticing our still nearly full glasses Louise slides close to me and leans over. “Horrible stuff, isn’t it? When Max isn’t looking I dump mine in the plant.” She winks. Any feelings of awkwardness quickly disappear as Louise and Jack begin chatting Jeromy and I up and dote on our children. They ask us how we came to this little part of London, how we’re getting on so far, and share wonderful stories about their lives as working actors both in theater and television. Party guests continue to filter in throughout the afternoon. A mini United Nations with friends from England, France, Australia, China, and America (thanks to us!) and likely more I didn’t count. Nolan is playing hide-and-seek with his new favorite friend, Louie, while Blake and Brandon take turns stacking blocks on the floor. Everywhere we turn another friendly face is welcoming us to the area, asking if they can be of any help, and making sure we get more than enough to eat. The party moves to the back yard where Shau-Yu has set up a table filled with a fantastic assortment of Chinese and English food. Trays of roast duck, hummus, garlic bread, cheeses, and sweet corn on the cob. A smorgasbord of Eastern and Western delicacies, colorful and decadent. And at the end of the table, a large bowl filled with apples.

You might think that standing here in the middle of this fusion of cultures and languages I’d feel like a fish out of water. But to my great surprise I find myself feeling more at home than ever before. There is something about genuine hospitality and a sincere smile that has a way of setting all people at ease, I think. We all crave that, that need to be welcomed and accepted. It’s getting ourselves to the other side of the tree that’s the hard part. I pick up an apple from the table and take a bite. It’s sweet and everything I hoped it would be.

The streets of London are dark. The air is crisp and the night clear. A woman in a blue leather trench coat stands in front of her apartment building. A man struggles to maneuver a large double buggy through the narrow doors while 2 small children wail and scream. Her eyes are tired, her feet are sore, she raises a hand to the sky as if to say, “Why God?” The family stumbles into the elevator, the doors close, the day is over.

30 minutes earlier.

“Excuse me mam, you might want to take a look at your son.” I look up from the iphone where I’ve frantically been trying to read emails from our realtor and catch up on life that happened in the last 12 hours. She is wearing pink Playboy Bunny ears and fishnet tights, her eye makeup painted on in thick, black brushstrokes. She is also pointing at my eldest son who is at this moment pulling down the eyelids of my youngest son and laughing hysterically. “Look mom, I’m making Blakey sleep!” Blake lets out a scream that causes every passenger in the train to turn and stare at this crazy American family. I white-knuckle the stroller handlebar and shoot Nolan my best if-you-don’t-knock-it-off-you-are-so-in-for-it look. Playboy Bunny sitting across from us winks at Nolan and tries her best not to laugh. She taps her 5 inch black stilettos and clutches her red sequin hand bag as her stop approaches. Who gets on a train dressed like that, I wonder. Then I look down at my own attire and sheepishly blush. Well, at least I didn’t choose to look like this! Nolan climbs up in my lap and buries his head in my chest. Ah, maybe he’ll fall asleep…maybe he’ll sleep the rest of the way home…maybe - “MOM! What is that smell?!”

1 hour earlier

“Say cheese!” Nolan, Blake and I pose for a picture - not that we’ll need one to remember this day. I cinch the belt of this trench coat a little tighter and check myself in the reflection of the patio door. What I wouldn’t give for a bottle of perfume. The vintage leather feels cold and rubbery against my bare skin underneath. It’s about 3 sizes too big, but most all of me is properly covered. The dress I had been wearing is now balled up and tied in a grocery sack, hopefully the pungent fumes will be contained.
“Ok Blake’s been changed, and both boys are in the stroller. You ready to head for the train station?”
“Jeromy, I really don’t think I can go out like this. I feel like a flasher.”
“Hey, it’s clean and it’s all we could find in those boxes. You look cute!”
“Don’t even start with me.”
“Come on, we’ll sit back and relax on the train ride home. The boys will probably be exhausted and conked out the whole way.”

30 minutes earlier

“Here, we’ve got a package of baby wipes and some Kleenex. Go upstairs and do your best.” I stare at Jeromy blankly. “Well, Sara, do you have a better idea? We have no towels, no soap, no paper towels, and quite frankly…you smell!” If he even grins at me right now, I’ll kill him. I turn and slowly and carefully make my way up each step. If I hug my arms to my chest tight I can contain most of the mess to the inside of my dress. I catch a whiff of myself and choke back the lump rising in my throat. Meatballs…never again.
“When you’re done doing that we can rip open these boxes and find something for you to wear home.”

30 minutes earlier

“Mom, why is the taxi driver going so fast?”
“Just keep your seat belt on, we’ll be back to the house soon.” I clutch Blake close to my chest as we swerve in and out of traffic on the narrow, winding streets of London. Oh how I wish we had carseats, but the laws here are much less strict on things like safety and protecting life. I hear an odd rumbling noise coming from deep inside my 1 year old and he begins to squirm.
“Shhh Blakey, it’s alright mommy’s here, be still.” He coughs. Oh please God, no. Sure enough before I can react, partially digested fish and chips, peas, milk, and meatballs come spewing out with the force of Mt. Vesuvius. And just like that it is over. Blake falls limp in my arms, this bout with carsickness leaving him wiped. I grit my teeth as the cab driver looks back horrified.
“Don’t worry it’s not on the seat, I think I caught it all in my dress.” The look of relief on his face is about enough to send me over the edge.

2 hours earlier

“Isn’t this great, Sara? They have a whole restaurant here! We can just sit and eat while we wait for the cab.” I smile and nod at Jeromy.
“Just make sure Blake gets plenty to eat, he’s been starving all day. Get a bunch of those meatballs they’re supposed to be famous for!” I have to admit, after a LONG day of shopping at IKEA sitting down to a big dinner without having to leave the store sounds pretty good. Jeromy comes back with plates of fish and chips, Swedish meatballs, peas, and dessert. We’ve been fighting wall to wall crowds of people in this massive furniture super-store for hours as we attempt to furnish the house we’ll be renting for the next 2 years. Nolan and Blake have been troopers, but as exhaustion and hunger set in they have begun to climb the walls. Yes, a nice family dinner to refuel, then a quick cab ride back to our empty house, then a quiet train ride back to our apartment in the city. Piece of cake.

10 hours earlier

“Ok guys, we’ve got to run if we’re going to make it to the house in time to meet the movers.”
“Daddy, why are there movers at our new house?”
“They’re delivering all the stuff we had shipped from Kansas City today! Do you remember when we packed up all your toys and everything? Well today all those boxes are being delivered, and we’ve got to hurry because a cab is going to pick us up at the house to take us to IKEA!” I strap both boys into our massive double stroller and look up at my husband who is checking his train map for the millionth time. “Can we really do all this?” I ask with trepidation. Always the optimist Jeromy replies, “We’re going to have fun, what could possibly happen?”

3 months earlier

“Ok Jer that’s the last box, the one with our coats in it.”
“You’re bringing that coat to London? You’ll never wear it.”
“Yeah you’re probably right. Take it out… Wait, you know what…keep in after all. Who knows? You never know when you’re going to need a blue leather trench coat!”