We forget almost every year, but this year we remembered.

We will be celebrating with a family trip to buy SEAFOOD.

Had to shout, because, you know, LARGE QUANTITIES OF SEAFOOD.

Washed down with pink bubbles.

Shut Up!

I happen to LIKE pink bubbles.

Any excuse for a party.

Especially on anniversaries which come but once every few years.

Today is my birthday. If you like you may try to guess how old I am.

First Prize will be My Undying Gratitude. The winner will be the person guessing “29″.

You may wonder why “29″ and not “21″ . Well, because I officially stopped the clock at 29 and so if you say “21″ I will know it is a lie and you are just trying to flatter me. I don’t take too kindly to being played for a fool. Even if I did get ID’d when buying beer a couple of months back.

So, 29 it is then.

You may also wonder why I don’t say “40″ especially as I have always maintained that my best age will probably be 40. The answer: I am as vain as the next person. I want to be 40, not look 40.

Actually,  now I come to think of it, I have been reviewing the “29″ thing. I think the hands of the clock have crept a little. What did I know when I was 29? I was still so immature, such a baby. At 32 I was much more wise without being too, too wrinkly.

OK, let’s make “32″ the new “29″.

Good. Lots of clues there. How old do you think I am?

(P.S. It’s my birthday, remember. I am counting on you to be flattering)

P.P.S. No, you do not get a photo. That would make things too easy.

Life has been fairly rollicking along here, with “First!s” coming thick and fast. And yes, most all of them are fairly unimpressive but in our family we are backward and never do the things we are supposed to do in the order we are supposed to do them.

First!: It all kicked off with Baby Sister’s pre-k graduation, which was actually the first in our family. The T-Bot was never in a pre-K class. Because it was very hard to understand much of what he was saying when he was four, we had been advised to place him with children a year younger, who would be closer to his communication level. That totally made sense, and worked out very well. But it did mean no practise at field trips, behavior traffic light charts. … and no pre-K graduation. (It also meant he was subsequently thrown in at the deep end but then hindsight is 20/20).

First!: Not actually a first but the first for such a long time that I had to (ahem) buy a new dress. An actual real to goodness semi-formal party which did not call for the wearing of jeans! And not a costume party, either… I do love the casual style in these parts so I surprised myself with how relieved I was to get a chance to scrub up.

First!: Only a week later, and Baby Sister had her first sleepover. This was a momentous occasion for us, but she took it totally in her stride. Totally. While we were wandering around the quiet house wringing our hands and getting a taste of Empty Nest Syndrome (guess who makes all the noise around here?), she was experiencing something which by all accounts must come close to Disneyland. Her friend’s Mommy was nice and never yelled and also didn’t sit in front of the computer to work all the time! Baby Sister swam! Played with Princesses! Went to the park! Watched a cool movie we don’t have! Requested cereal and ice cream for dinner and they gave it to her! Swam again after dinner!

And was returned to us the next morning, beaming.

First!: That very night we were invited out with childless friends, so it was time for another “First!”. This time? We hired a babysitter who was not a friend or family member. A real babysitter, like in movies! (Although thankfully not like in “When a Stranger Calls“,  which I never saw because just the trailers gave me nightmares).

Actually that’s a lie. Baby Sister hired her. She came home from school one day saying that Miss Angela had agreed to be our babysitter. So it was kind of out of my hands.

Remembering the dismal babysitters of my youth, I had warned the kids that Miss Angela might be one of those people who just sat around making sure they didn’t chop their hands off with the kitchen knife and could reach the door handle if they happened to set the house on fire … but it turned out to be the Disneyland experience all over again. Miss Angela arrived at exactly the appointed time and within two minutes was painting Baby Sister’s nails while giving The Wictor a horsey ride and fixing the T-Bot’s Lego creation. All more or less at the same time. It seems she kept the pace up for four hours straight, and we returned to find her dancing around the house singing just a spoonful of sugar makes the medicine go down reading stories while the kids ate apples. And the house wasn’t a mess. And the children didn’t want her to leave so we had to promise she would come back really soon. So I think that was a success.

First!: While Miss Angela had everything under control, The Daddy and I took his zippy little car to get to the restaurant. No sooner had we sat in it than we realised that in over a year of ownership, we had never been in his car together.  There is no room for three kids in the back, you see. For five glorious minutes we pretended we were young and childless, and then we got to the restaurant and I pulled a muscle in my leg getting out of the car and had to hobble into the restaurant and that was the end of that fantasy.

First!: The T-Bot, encouraged by an older boy, jumped off the diving board at the community pool.

First!: This week was relatively firstless, although you could count not losing any children at the brilliantly redesigned Childrens Museum as a “First!”. Until tonight, when the neighbor’s kid shot our house with a BB gun. Which was the “First!” time we had ever been shot at.

My two eldest looked to be trapped in some kind of net box ….

And they didn’t seem the least bit concerned by the situation.

Yesterday was Baby Sister’s birthday. I learned a hard lesson last year, when I had the whole party organized in 20 minute segments, only to have half the little girls lock themselves away in an upstairs bedroom with a box of Barbies and refuse to come out. This year we stuck to a few crafts, some cake, a pinata … and of course a Bouncy Castle:

Yes, it really was that big. The lady who delivered and set it up actually suggested - in all seriousness - that next time we ask to keep it overnight. So that we could camp out in it.  America continues to amaze me.

So plenty of room for all the kids to jump, although all of them didn’t end up in it at once, because half of them were upstairs playing Barbie.

Speaking of which, the haul this year was almost exclusively Barbie. We are overflowing with them already, and every one is a favorite. Forget Barbie’s Dream House/Real House/My House. I think we are headed for Barbie Sorority House. Especially with the addition of Totally Stylin Tattoos Barbie. Yes, we got one of those and in case you were wondering about all the hype, she does come with a “tattoo gun” stamper which makes a scarily realistic noise. It makes me a little uncomfortable but to the kids it’s just another, less messy way of applying some pretty cute and inoffensive temporary tattoos.

They don’t seem as interested in applying the mini tattoo stickers to Barbie.

While I am just itching to give her a tramp stamp. Because I am evil like that and care nothing for my childrens’ morals

So, just like that Baby Sister turns 5. I took her to buy her main present yesterday. We bought her a very expensive new bike. I say very expensive because at the rate we currently ride (about 10 times a year), if it lasts her 2 years it will have cost more than $10 a ride. But my hand was forced. I started off by buying her a (what else?) Barbie bike, which was the only toy store bike I could find which had relatively good reviews. And I wanted to like it. It is lightweight and has cool styling. However, its main feature is that none of the parts fit together properly. I discovered this after several frustrating hours, one trip back to the store for a bike center employee to look at me condescendingly and tighten a few screws, and the hassle of the front brake falling apart in my hand as I tried to adjust it for the umpteenth time. The last straw.

At which point The Daddy and I discussed things and decided that our children need to ride a lot more. You need to get me my money’s worth, young woman!

…

PS I know these birthday posts are supposed to be all sentimental and full of poetry about how I remember her soft baby head and baby toes and it seems just like yesterday - but honestly? I was too sleep deprived. Don’t remember a thing. She just kind of lay there and went gaa and waa a lot.

Now that she is 5 she doesn’t do that, so much. But dammit, we do need to find a storage solution for all those Barbies.

In theory I don’t have time to post now, but I feel like I deserve 10 minutes me time.

This is yet another post about how cooking and me are just not compatible.

You know how some people just can’t grasp Math? I’m like that with cooking. Actually, not too hot on Math either, but you get the point.

You see, The Daddy wanted to introduce me to some cool people he knows. We were going to get a babysitter and go out to dinner.

Then, while I was distracted, that somehow turned into Sunday Lunch at Our Place.

Fine. For them, I will tidy my living room.

Still working on other things. Not really giving lunch my full attention, and then, when I do,  it has become lunch at our place, eating a dish that only I can cook. As in me. The non-cook. It is one of my repertoire of about 5 dishes I can cook reasonably well. As long as I concentrate.

I decide to get a head start. By Saturday lunchtime I have been to the supermarket and I am - triumphantly! - cooking up a storm. I have two ways of cooking: For us - sloppy and not very nice. For other people - so scared of getting it wrong that I go all OCD and start adding ingredients drop by drop for the perfect mix. Predictably, yesterday’s preparation of today’s lunch takes me most of the afternoon.

And then The Daddy opens wine, we have a quick dinner, put the kids to bed and I sit at my computer to do some work. I am sleepy, so I am in bed by 11.

And then I remember the lunch. It has been sitting on the bench to cool …

…since 5pm.

I start to rationalize. Chicken, yes, but people take chicken sandwiches on picnics all the time and don’t poison themselves. Remember, I am half asleep at this point. Then, all of a sudden, I am not. Because it dawns on me that the chicken is suspended in a cream sauce.

Chicken and cow juice. It’s a Bacteria Party!

So this morning, 7am, I had a date with a second cream sauce.

You know what happens next. For this, my second cream sauce, I am not so enthusiastic. Plus, The Daddy is not up yet so I am empty of my morning coffee.

I begin by burning the butter.

Start again. All going well. I turn away for no more, I swear, no more than 20 seconds and the whole concoction inexplicably curdles.

I am no good with curdle. Start again.

And now, friends, it is done. And as soon as I have my shower I will be off to the supermarket for another chicken. Silly me, I didn’t think to have one in reserve.

At this point I am thinking our mystery guests had better be Rock Star Cool.

We need more cool around here. Because I have lost mine.

My birthday was nice. When The Daddy got home at 4.30 we ate birthday cake, opened our presents and then had dinner.

(The kids: “Dinner? Again?”.

Yes kids, because we served you cake for dinner and then a second dinner later. )

I showed The Daddy the famous flowers. I had picked out mixed roses on a whim, even though lilies are my favorite, and I am very pleased. This birthday was kind of … quiet. And nice.

Yesterday was The Daddy’s birthday, and I went on a Girls Night Out. You read that right. We always celebrate his birthday along with mine anyway, so last night I went out and kicked up my heels. While being the designated driver, but you know, sometimes that can be the most fun. Hearing everybody’s secrets and then actually remembering them in the morning.  This was actually my first Girls Night Out since I left the UK 3 1/2 years ago, which is quite shocking to think about really. So let’s not.

We ate at a Japanese restaurant. The food was good, but it was also very business-driven, and not in a good way. I mean, we hadn’t finished our appetizers before they were trying to make room on the table for the entrees, and then suddenly the bill appeared on the table. When we hung around, our waiter started clearing the table while chewing his own dinner. Also, maybe I am naive, but I have never experienced the used-car sales technique as practiced by a waiter before. He knew his wine list - at least the ones which were 20% off. And he tried to upsell all the dishes, claiming this one was too small, that one didn’t have enough tuna, you would need at least 15 of those. They stopped the music at 9.30 which was I guess our cue that they wanted us out of there. The place was empty.

But the location is secondary on a Girl’s Night Out, right? What you really want to do is have fun. So we went on to the bar of the restaurant next door where our table proceeded to entertain all the patrons, and me. Actually I think some of the patrons may have walked out, but others seemed to be enjoying listening in. One gentleman even said as much. There was all the inebriated gossip you might expect - relationships, bitches, relationships, sex, relationships, preschool - but this year there was also a new topic of conversation. Money, or the shortage of it.

Wait a minute. Let’s stop and go back a sentence.

Seriously? It was easy to pick up men because you had your own caravan????  Seeing you in a whole new light.

Ahem. Money. Now, there’s a sobering thought. Not that any of my party got sober (although I should point out here that I am talking tongue-loosening levels of insobriety, nobody got close to dancing on a table. I was mildly disappointed.) The great thing about getting drunk with the girls - or in my case, not getting drunk with the girls, is that you find out things about people that you would never have expected. Women who you see in a casual setting during the day, who may even seem very upright, very prim and proper, take on a three dimensional aspect once you hear a little about their lives, past and present. That’s why we all like soap operas (admit it, you too) and that’s why we all like Girls Nights Out.

But then the bar closed at 11 and they ejected us into the chilly suburban Houston night. My car was the last one left in the carpark, but I suppose we were doing well for suburbia on a weeknight. Everybody grumbled about how their husbands would already be asleep, but when I got home The Daddy was still up and, even though his alarm was set for 5.45 this morning, he opened a bottle of wine and we sat up talking. So he did get to celebrate his birthday after all. Or at least, drink wine.

And then, suddenly, at about 1 am, we heard snoring. I went upstairs and there, curled up on a chair overlooking the front door, was The Wictor. He had obviously woken during the night and fallen asleep again waiting for me.

Its fun going out. But absolutely the best part? Coming home to my family.

I love fall and winter in the US. It’s an exciting time of year, involving three straight months of anticipation and celebrations, beginning with Halloween.

For us, everything started with last weekend, when Baby Sister and Wictors’ school had their Fall Festival at a nearby park. Have I told you before how much I love their school? Almost all the teachers and staff were there, on a Saturday, patiently manning the stalls and supervising activities. There were train rides and a Bouncy Castle and popcorn and candy floss and in deference to the loud influx of Europeans they have had this year, hardly any candy (although someone did point out to me somewhat disapprovingly that there was a lollipop pull). Baby Sister found a group of Princesses to join and they hung out like mini teenagers at the mall, getting their hair sprayed pink and their faces painted together. Meanwhile The T-Bot ran around all the games, delighting in each plastic bug or orange pencil he won. The Wictor was happy to hang out in the playground and I was happy to let him because phew!

As we left, Baby Sister did the rounds of her teachers, past and present, gathering hugs. For a while there it did feel like we were part of a big, happy community.

Which brings us to tonight, Halloween night, an evening of high excitement. The Wictor and Baby Sister were already strung out on sugar when I picked them up from school, and despite a couple of hours of cooling off time in front of the TV (Charlie and Lola, if you must ask), by the time we had finished dinner and changed them into their costumes they were so out of control that The Daddy abandoned his plans to take them Trick or Treating. Which meant that the job of keeping them out from under the wheels of passing cars fell to me.

We did the same as last year - visited about 10 houses on our block before calling it a night. They were actually very good, held hands and tried to remember to be polite and say Thank You. This may or may not have had something to do with my threatening a return home and early bedtime if they did not comply.

(Ha! the Daddy! He knows Nothing!)

We then spent the next two hours running excitedly between the lounge (now strewn with candy wrappers) and the door, servicing the stream of Trick or Treaters. Yes, strewn with candy wrappers. I am no killjoy.

Let me tell you now about some of our more memorable Trick or Treaters. There was the circa 16 year old dressed as a Naughty Nurse, who met my eye as she gouged two great handfuls of candy out of my outstretched bowl. Another 16 year old came by herself, sans disguise, and didn’t even pause her cellphone conversation to say thank you. By far the strangest visitor was the woman in her 40s who, after her children had chosen candy, stopped me as I tried to take the bowl away. “Please, Trick or Treat!” she said, and then, picking through the bowl, “Ooh! I like this one. And this one”. Confused, I didn’t say anything.

There were plenty of rude teenagers and a smattering of cute little kids too. And then we had a surprise Halloween visitor. He barged into the house and ran around scaring the heck out of Baby Sister, who proceeded to take the roof off with her wailing. After The Daddy calmed her down she was happy to come outdoors and pet Rambo. He thankfully was very friendly and had a tag on his collar with his name and phone number. And once his owner had come by to pick him up, it was bedtime.

And now it’s my bedtime too.

PS We brushed our teeth very carefully.

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A few photos from The Wictor’s birthday tea. Chocolate cake in the still-unfinished dining room. Apologies for the poor photos, we were just so excited. 

Blowing Out the Candles: 

Sampling The Cake: 

Fingers Just Aren’t Fast Enough!: 

Oh, and his birthday present from us? A Cars Rolling Trolley Case, of course!

I killed three birds with one stone: Birthday, Travel, School in September. Actually, four. Because now he and Baby Sister can stop fighting over her Hello Kitty case.  

Happy Birthday, The Wictor!

So, once we had sorted out the confusion over the reason for the surprise party (at least in everyone’s mind except Baby Sister’s - she persisted in thinking it was The Daddy’s birthday and kept yelling “Happy Birthday Daddy”) , there was more celebrating to be done.

First, a homemade pinata, decorated by Baby Sister and bashed very energetically with a broom. 

Then , inexplicably, story time. Maybe because The T-Bot had a new book from the school library and wanted to share it.

For dinner we had pizza, of course, because who cooks on their Third Anniversary of arriving in The States? With Champagne, cake and coffee. Decorations on the cake are courtesy of the T-Bot… 

And now, a couple more gratuitous patriotic photos, just because I think they are cute: 

Much fun was had by all. Thank you, good night. 

So as I was sitting in the car line with Baby Sister and The Wictor today, waiting to pick up the T-Bot from school,  I decided, totally out of boredom, to check my diary. Which is how I noticed that today was our 3rd anniversary! 

No, obviously not our wedding anniversary… OK, no obviously about it, but not our wedding anniversary. 

(BTW, Checking my diary is usually how I remember anniversaries, and this is why I didn’t actually notice until 3.45pm…). 

Today was our 3rd Anniversary of arriving in the States. 

We made a family decision that this was Cause for Celebration, and once the T-Bot had been delivered to the car, we made an urgent run to the supermarket for cake and champagne. Cake was easy - ice cream cake always wins the day - but then we had to wait 10 minutes for the Man with the Key, because at said supermarket they keep the champagne in a locked cabinet and the Manager of the Wine Section somewhere at the other end of the store. Maybe he does double duty as Diaper Manager or something but certainly he is never around when you need him.

End result,  we didn’t escape from there until almost 4.15. 

“Quick” I said to the kids, “Daddy will be home soon, we only have 30 minutes”. So we rushed home and started our preparations for “Daddy’s Surprise Party”. Because somehow it became about The Daddy and all the cool things we could do to surprise him. 

Unfortunately we didn’t have 30 minutes because he arrived home today at 4.30. As he zoomed up the drive, this is what we were busy doing: 

All was not lost, we had already managed a banner - a team effort which involved all four of us in a frenzy of lettering and coloring: 

And really, plenty of balloons to keep everyone occupied and amused: 

The Daddy’s first ” surprised” reaction as he walked in the door was a little tragic: 

So I asked him to try again like he really meant it. Five minutes and many photos later, after posing for posterity with a “surprised” look and a bunch of red white and blue balloons… 

…and a couple of american flags, 

He said to me, seriously he said: “So what is it, fourteen years?” 

Did I mention already that this was not our Wedding Anniversary?