First Words

Mrs Clutterbuck's class: sometime in the early 'eighties.  The door opens onto rows of single desks, side on, and there's a window seat across the room. The school used to be a grand home but the furniture's changed and there are dry-erase white boards in place of artwork. There's an impressive entry with a marble slab stairwell clinging to the walls, taking it's time to meander past large stone windows, down to the iron studded double oak doors. Beyond Mrs Clutterbuck's class is the stairwell. We never use it, of course. We come in through the cloakroom at the back. Past the dining rooms, eyes on the black and red floor tiles, and up the back stairs. Homework is to find out what our first words were.
'Cow', I discover, and write it proudly on my piece of paper.  Cow. I learn that my brother said 'Clower' and I imagine my mum pushing him in the purple Silver Cross pram and pointing out the primroses and snowdrops as they emerged from the hedgerows. Or maybe it was later, May perhaps, and the lane was full of cow parsley and campions. By the time I arrived, my brother would have just been toddling at my mum's side. You didn't have to walk very far before reaching the crooked iron gates and seeing the cows. Damp pink noses pushing through the bars, whiskers as tough as fishing line.  The farmer left giant bricks of salt by the water troughs which they'd lick like eroded sandstone, before pushing their vast sandpaper tongues up a nostril.  My brother's gaze, by now, had shifted from flowers to cows and I was the beneficiary.  'Cow' would be my entry into language, my stepping stone.  How often did we walk up the lane? Twice daily, with the dog? A single track, muddied tarmac, with gravel smoothed in two neat grooves from the wear of car tyres.  I can only imagine those walks but they are sealed forever in a part of me with the knowledge of my first word.  I remember the later walks, using my doll's bonnet to stash wild strawberries only to find out that I had stained the soft blond flannel with a gash of red that looked forever like a head injury.  I was not a 'girly girl'; I had called the doll 'floppy legs', but it still shocked me. And later again, home from boarding school, walking with my camera, taking pictures of those noses, or of black and white hide pulled tight over angular haunches.  Then the walking became running the loop; up the lane in one direction, zig-zaging to the end, a left and right, up the hill, past Treswallen and Creed Lane, hugging the hedge on the way down the other side, over the bridge and back home.

What is a first word?  Must it be accompanied by a pointed finger? 'Look, a cow!' Or is it a mother's memory; 'You loved the cows, we walked the lane so often to look at them.' Our youngest has, in the past few weeks, put his first word on the slate of his emerging history.  Though he mimiced 'apple' beautifully several times he hasn't quite aligned the softly spoken syllables to the fruit in the bowl. What he does say frequently and what is all too clearly understood is 'Nee new', copied from his brothers' 'I need you!'  He must have worked out that 'Nee new', in this house, is the equivalent of dialing a first responder.  What picture will this third child draw for himself when he is asked by his teacher to find out his first word?  Mine, after all, could have come from a picture book.

Voices

It is quiet around here. With Max in school, real school, school that lasts more than three hours, things have got a lot quieter.  In fact last night, when I went to bed, it was a surprise to find that it was Oli's voice rattling around in my head.  I remember when Max began speaking and his chit chat invaded my head. All I could hear was his phantom banter as I drifted off to sleep, only to wake up to the real thing in the morning. And it is Max's daily absence that has suddenly made me hear more clearly the lilt of Oli's phrases, the subtle lisp ('theat' not 'seat'), the rise and fall of his short, incomplete sentences and if I'm honest, his whine to be carried up the stairs. But it is lovely to have Oli's voice filling that little bit of empty audio space in our home.

It was this time last year that I was feeling totally overwhelmed by the new preschool we had chosen for Max. Admittedly I had other preoccupations, like a newborn on the way, the awful kindergarten admission process and a move to a new home but the school involved mandatory parent enrichment nights - like a parenting night school - participation in the classroom, and all kinds of attendance at book teas, round tables and workshops.  But as the year progressed I realised that the preschool was in fact something very unique and, with it's emphasis on imagination and discovery, it was exactly the way I wanted to parent my children. So this year we have arrived at the start of Oli's preschool adventure. I've had to write him a family book - all about our family, about Oli's place within it and our traditions and values - things I, frankly, hardly think about in the daily chaos of having small children. But actually it seems the perfect time to sit down and think about who Oli is, to separate him from Max, and hear his voice a little louder.

Summer Camp

We have just finished our first foray into summer camp, our first foray into this good old American tradition.  Summer camps weren't a part of the geography of my childhood or anyone I knew in fact. So, remembering my own summer holidays of idleness and unscheduled days I felt a little bad sending Max off with a pack-lunch in his backpack for a morning at school. Because it took place at school, the new one he is going to in September. And part of our thinking was that he'd be familiarising himself with the new building, new playground, new faces.  And part of the thinking was that he's been idle and unscheduled since the beginning of June...and it's now the end of August.  My main objective though was that he would like his new school. And like it he does.
During the course of the week, they designed boats with various bits of life's shrapnel; bottle tops, plant matter, sticks and corks. Max chose bottle tops for his, and enhanced it with paper and sellotape. Grinning, he proudly declared: 'And mine SANK!'  So they worked out that wood and corks were the best boat-building materials and at the end of the week, took just such a vessel down to the sea to float out under the Golden Gate Bridge.  After so much entertainment I was feeling fairly confident about the school transition thing.
'Yes' he told me, he liked his new school, wasn't going to miss the old, and then with emphasis 'because the loos are so much better!'  So much for boat-building!

Thoughts

It's been a tricky adjustment back to life in the States after a whole month in the UK. I've been grumpy for a week. I can admit this, but don't even think about nodding in agreement.  Any of you boys, that is.  Anyway, I'm getting better.  It was a holiday after all. It had to end. And it will always be there.
Indulge me a little. Let me wallow in the smell of rotting seaweed, brought in by the ground sea of that stormy spring tide.  It's not to everyone's taste.  The sway of the boat as the rainbow feathers bring in a black, green, glistening mackerel from the dark sea.  Not like it was decades ago, of course, when they were hauled in by the dozen. And never a storm in July back then. That's what I'm told.  In those days, (forty years ago was it?) the boats spent months tied to the moorings and came in only to have seaweed scraped from their hulls like fat sheep ready for shearing.  Who can blame me for a little nostalgia when the past is something everyone there refers to, relishes in, even outsmarts one another over.  The way it was, the way it's always been.  The lie of the rocks, the lie of the land. And so I watch Max catch his first mackerel, his first rock-cod and I try to capture it with a photo, but really I'm hoping it is the smell he falls for, the sway of the boat, the scales on his hands, the sea salt starching his hat; not just a first memory but a whole topography to tread through.

What else? Buckets, spades, a treasured cowrie, lollipops on the beach, crickets on the green, grasshoppers and caterpillars to observe, paths through the maize, the potato harvest in full swing, crabs at low tide, boats in the river, feet in the ford, wet shoes again...

Sporting Allegiance

Max had his last day at preschool this week and is now 'on vacation' for the summer.  Oli fell asleep in the car on the way over to his brother's party, the grand finale of the term.  Three songs had been practiced and prepared for the event. The first was a baseball song which Max had let slip at home in short bursts: '1, 2, 3 strikes, your out! At the Old Ball Game!' seemed the most enduring line.  This song, I'm told, is the 'Humpty Dumpty' of sporting songs in the States, they learn it in the crib.  I'm not sure that's true and maybe it was a coincidence but that very evening, as if to challenge any place the game might one day take in his heart, Dom found the Lightening Seeds chant, 'Football's Coming Home' on youtube and we had several renditions of Skinner and Baddiel reminiscing about the glory days of Gazza and Shearer.  It proved very popular.  It's still in the balance but since a song is the surest way to my sons heart, I think football (aka soccer) may have out-manoeuvred baseball.  Yesterday, of course, England met the USA in South Africa for the World Cup. It was harder to get to the bottom of his allegiance being, as he is, born of English parents but holding a US passport.  The vitriol between the 2 countries seems to be at its worst, with the oil crisis in the Gulf of Mexico at the hands of BP, not that Max is aware of it.  Initially he declared he was for England but then he realized the US were dressed in blue - his favourite colour.  Difficult.  He also likes 'rainbow' he tells me - so with England's goaly in green and the USA's in orange and then of course the yellow refs - he was liking all of them too. Oli sucked his thumb on the sofa next to us and went to bed at half time.  We actually missed the US goal (or shocking English mistake, depending how you see it) and by the time the final whistle went we were involved in 'playing airports' which is the jeux de jour these days.  Max is obviously keeping his allegiance close to his chest for the time being.

Green Card Holders

At some point during the middle of last week Dom and I became green card holders. Well, we aren't holding them yet, but we've been sent letters welcoming us to permanent resident status in the United States. I'm still technically meant to take myself off to a TB clinic because I have latent TB, possibly from years spent in the London borough of Brent, but I don't think anyone's checking. So when the card arrives we've been told we have to carry it everywhere. 'It's the law' says the piece of paper. Even to the corner shop? Out jogging? (as if!) But really? I can now think of dozens of places I want to go without my wallet; the beach, the playground, the run to preschool... I'm reminded of the time we were caught speeding near Yosemite last year. I say we, but it was (sorry Dom) not me behind the wheel. However, neither of us were carrying our passports as the CHIPS officer in bright white SUV appeared suddenly from the blind crest in front of us. Shiny sheriff's star proudly pinned to his right breast, shades down, beige uniform perfectly ironed, gloss black boots neatly crunching over the gravel of the turn-out as he paced towards us. He was incredulous that we didn't have any identification papers, 'in this time of heightened homeland security'. His voice went high pitched with utter astonishment. The upshot was that six weeks later Dom had to make a 4 hour journey to Mariposa courthouse to bargain with the DA and get the charge of infringement (one down from a felony if you can you believe it) reduced to misdeameanour and then wiped completely, which amazingly, he succeeded in doing. So we know what it is to brush with the law here without the right paperwork.
But the truth is, I'm not really sure what having a green card actually means to us. Sure, it's harder for us to be thrown out of the country. But strangely, that new privilege, after three years in this country and a nine month application process, is almost a bit of a let-down. I don't want to go on about my expat-anxt, but I thought this long awaited new status might be the jigsaw piece we were looking for, the thing that made the picture of our future a little clearer. But, no. It almost feels like we now have the freedom to leave the country, spend a year in Patagonia, buy a run down farm in Andalucia...a challenge for our next adventure, perhaps?

Max tries to communicate with his foreign mother

This is an update to the post where I get all sad because Max says 'warder' not 'water'.
It was about ten minutes before the whole bath-bed routine kicked in when Max decided he wanted to fill a bucket with water using the hose. I was cradling Oli, our little sumo seven month old, who was hinting loudly, a pulsing thumb in his mouth, that it was time to wrap things up and give him the bottle.
'Please can I have some wadder, Mummy?'
Max is by the outdoor tap, bucket in hand. I am standing on the deck, staring blankly, thinking on what grounds I can deny Max water and get him up to bed. He did say 'please' after all. There are at least 3 seconds of silence, they surprise everyone. But they are broken loudly.
'Wadder!'
It's 6.30pm, my brain is a blur, I'm on auto-pilot. Bath, teeth, bed and somewhere in there, a bottle for Oli. Spontaneity is not an option tonight.
'Warder.' Max says. It's quieter than I expect, like he's testing his voice. Then I realise he's changed his pronunciation. He either thinks I don't understand or he wants to keep me sweet with my pronunciation.
'Warder!' It's louder this time. I'm keeping quiet.
'Can I have some wharder?' There's real emphasis on the crucial word, and it now has a hint of breathy Irish.
His look says 'Do I have to spell it out, lady?' There's another pause between us. I'm intrigued as to where this vocal somersault will end.
'I need some war-Ter Mummy.'
And in that single word he sounds so English, if he was ten years older I'd be convinced he was taking the piss.

It's a matter of miles...

I'm a little homesick at the moment. I'm not sure why I'm feeling this way - perhaps it was my birthday with all those calls from family and friends in the UK and their talk of springtime and sunshine. Perhaps it was the pasties we ate, or perhaps it is the ranch where we've spent the last 4 days. Lying on the grass earlier, the sun on my back, surrounded by buttercup-dotted hills, everything felt so familiar to me, and yet so unfamiliar. We saw deer up on the horizon and watched black angus cattle grazing. And we saw hawks circling overhead and hares with their long ears and huge hind legs hopping through the garden and we scrutinized a ladybird with no spots. In the evening we played cards and read our books and it was Hank Williams who sang to us from the music system, mourning beautiful gals and cheatin' hearts. At night there is no light pollution, just darkness and the sound of frogs.
All this is peppered with our own uncertainty about where we want to be, which country, which continent, and it has left me craving a simplicity I recognise, something from my own childhood perhaps, just some chickens and a washing line.
In parallel to all this I felt strangely distant from my own child this weekend. 'He's a toddler fighting for independence' you'll say, but it wasn't that. While we were poking around in a stream and watching it flow through a drainage tunnel into a bog of reeds and chickweed he asked me, 'Mummy, where is the warder going?' Not, water, but warder. 'Warder'. He sounded so authentically American. I should have been prepared for it but somehow I wasn't. I just never expected, naively I suppose, that my child would ever sound foreign to me. I reassure myself that the jigsaw of our lives is still being laid out on the table and I know that really it's just a matter of miles - 5560 to be precise, that separates the two worlds in my heart.

English or American?

A while ago, Dom and I were asking Max if he was English or American. His answer usually just repeated the last word in the question so we could predict his response:
'Are you American or English?' Answer, 'English'.
'Are you English or American?' Answer, 'American'.
But then he got the gist of our responses: 'English', 'Yeaaaaah!' 'American', 'Noooooo'. Clearly our negative response held more appeal for him because he is now always American. In fact, he and Oli hold dual citizenship but here are a few of the facts;
Max got his social security number well before his parents.
Both Max and Oliver held US passports before British ones.
Fy engines go 'whhiiiir' not 'Neee Naaah'.
'Table cars' go 'ding ding'.
Halloween isn't scary.
Fireworks go off in the summer (4th July not Bonfire Night).
We get mail not post.
Grammar is dodgy.
Prepositions are scarce.
In fact, Max's American-ness is increasingly evident in his vocabulary. His first word was 'Hayo' (Hello) and even though his second utterance gave away his English parentage ('cup-o-tea') it is now the Rs that give him away as the yank in the family - CaR, DooR, MoRe (Or could it be the Cornishman in him?). Certainly the Rs are now creeping in all over the place - even where they don't exist. Thomas the tank engine, you may remember, has a big presence in this household and the other day Max pitched in with his ever present refrain of 'Where's Thomas? Where's Thomas?' But I noticed that 'Thomas' had actually become 'TaRmas'.
'Say 'o'' I said (as in 'clock'). 'o' Max replied.
'Say 'Tho'' I said. 'Tho' he replied.
'Say 'Thomas''. 'TaRmas'.
So there you have it, we are raising an American. Having said that, there is much confusion over tomatoes which started off as British, then became American ('tomaytoes') and are now inexplicably 'bonartoes'. The last frontier will be the loss of the T in butter and water, he isn't yet saying budder or warder although ask him where he lives and you'll get the sing-song answer 'San Fransisco Cidy'. But this country is, after all, the land of the immigrant and many a proper Cornish miner came here to try his luck during the gold rush 150 years ago. It is said that if there's a hole in the ground, you'll find a Cornishman at the bottom of it. So we are following well-trodden footprints (without the hole). Amid the cast of many extraordinary characters I heard about growing up in Cornwall's Penwith peninsula, there was one called 'Yanky Will'. I believe he was so-called because he 'went to there once'. So if that is the criteria upon which my family is to be judged, then it is clear none of us can escape our lengthy sojourn on this side of the Atlantic. Today is, in fact, our third Thanksgiving in America. It's a 'holiday' I like more and more. It lacks the commercialism that so often identifies American culture and that has become so blatant at Christmas. It is very simply about families getting together to eat. But I like it not so much for the turkey but also that it staves off the Christmas sprawl (Here, it's pumpkins til Thanksgiving, then fairy lights ONLY once the turkey has been devoured). Last year it was a proper family affair for us and like millions of truly American families we celebrated with a big bird, stuffing and the works. But this year, Dom is heading to London for his sister's wedding and I am parenting alone. Max and Oli, the true Americans in this family, may well feel cheated - I opted for lunch at a 50's style diner this year rather than a vigil over the oven punctuated by intermittent turkey basting. It is certainly evident that Max was very much ready to get into the Thanksgiving swing of things. I was told that although his friends had swiftly discarded the 'Turkey' hats they made at preschool, Max was the only child determined to wear his the entire day - 'I just want to wear my TuRkey hat, OK?'