The school year here somewhat resembles a year-round schedule.  There are three terms, with two weeks of holiday between terms, six weeks in the summer, and then one week holiday breaks at each half-term.  We were visiting Paris during the kids first half-term break last October, so I had grand plans for what we would do since we would be in town for this half-term. Then we had a leak and workmen came to repair it and we had to stay home Wednesday through Friday.  But Tuesday (which happened to be my birthday) we were able to go to the Imperial War Museum. 

It wasn’t a particularly warm day, but it was sunshine and blue sky, which was lovely.  We walked to the bus stop and were lucky to catch the bus we needed and rode it all the way to the museum.  One thing I love about the location of our house is that it’s really close to several different bus routes, which means that more often than not we can take just one bus to our destination rather than having to ride a bus to one place, and then switch to a different bus.  In fact, many times we have more than one option.  

The museum opens at 10:00 and we arrived at about 10:30 and practically had the place to ourselves.  This is an important note to myself for the future, get to museums as close to opening time as possible. The museums in London are almost always busy, especially in the afternoons. 

They were having an art activity for kids, since it was half-term. There is an exhibit going on right now called “Truth and Memories” and it is various artistic depictions of war, particularly WWI and WWII.  Most of the artwork was done by artists who were called out of regular military service to paint/photograph/sketch the history of the war.  The kids were told to pick their favorite piece from the exhibit and do a simplistic replication, which was then copied onto foam board and made into an ink press. 

After they finished their ink presses we went to the cafe and ate some snacks.  Then we did some museum exploring. 

Sometime in junior high school I wrote a report about the Enola Gay.  It was the airplane that dropped “Little Boy” on the city of Hiroshima.  I remember even as a tween having a pit in my stomach as I imagined the horror of that mission, that bomb, that decimated city.  Now as an adult it still makes me feel slightly ill what humans are capable of doing to other humans.   American physicist J Robert Oppenheimer, who worked on the bomb, shared his memory of watching the first test. 

“We knew the world would not be the same.  A few people laughed, a few people cried, most people were silent. I remembered the line from the Hindu scripture, the Bhagavad-Gita: ‘Now, I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.’
 I supposed we all thought that one way or another.” 

I want to share a couple other thoughtful quotes about the bomb, that were posted at the exhibit. 

“The bomb has been deliberately placed as close to the center of the building as possible. For me it is the ultimate symbol not only of political power and creative technological development, but also of absolute fear and horror.” 
 – Roger Tolson, curator

“The development and first use of the bomb is the tipping point of the twentieth century.  Along with the Holocaust, it showed exactly what humanity was capable of.” 
– Samantha Heywood, historian

A war museum is a fun place for kids, and that was okay with me.  But it was a bit depressing for me.  The museum is divided up into four floors, WWI, WWII, Post-1945 and then a floor dedicated to the Holocaust.  We made it through the first floor and saw the WWI exhibit.  I learned that when WWI began in 1914 no one expected it to last past Christmas. But new weaponry and warfare completely changed the way war was waged and caught everyone off guard.  I can’t do the explanation justice, but I was completely struck with the disturbing nature of war in that context. Men shooting at each other with guns and cannons and grenades, for a purpose that is completely intangible to them.  It just really unnerved me that the men/women who do all the fighting, suffering, dying and their families who suffer as well, aren’t the people at all who make the decisions about going to war.  They are just there, because their country has asked them to be, and they may or may not feel very confident in their cause. War is just really so, so awful. 

After we finished the WWI exhibit we went upstairs and didn’t make it all the way through the WWII floor, but we did see an exhibit about a British family of TEN and what life was like for them during the war.  The older daughters were married and had babies of their own, the older boys went off to fight, and the younger girls stayed back and found work and purpose in the war effort at home.  It talked about rationing, bombing raids and other ways the war affected daily life.  

Our bishop was a young boy in London during WWII.  He has told us, Richard in particular, many stories about what life was like.  I’ll save those for another blog post- but he was evacuated from the city twice (children in London were sent to the countryside for safety), had to spend hours in a wet and cold Anderson shelter, and had to ration just like everyone else.   

After finishing up the Allpress Family exhibit we wandered around and looked at a few more things before calling it a day.  I know I keep saying this, but I’m sure the older boys and I will go back to see more of the museum but Mim and Simon were spent. 

We made our obligatory post-museum park stop, then bought some crisps and took a sunny, warm, sleepy bus ride home.  

I feel like a big girl today.  It started with ordering a new vacuum bag online.  I’m not sure why I’m so impressed when I accomplish a task that requires the slightest bit of effort above and beyond opening a cupboard or going to a store.  I actually had to read the manual.  Our hoover wasn’t hoovering anymore.  Our “hoover” is actually a Miele, but here in the UK, Hoover has done what Kleenex has done back home in the states.  The brand name has become the name of the product itself.  But even better than Kleenex, Hoover is a pronoun, a noun, AND a verb. Well played Hoover.   I’m also so grateful for Amazon Prime, because the anticipation I am feeling over having a new bag, and a vacuum with some real gumption is too much for more than 24 hours.  (Have I mentioned that Amazon Prime gets you free ONE-DAY shipping ’round here?)

Then I finished one last online CEU course so I can renew my dental hygiene license this month.  It was a three credit course and I did it in 45 minutes.  Can’t beat that kind of efficiency, and now I will remind you all that using topical fluoride dentifrices and varnishes will [statistically] significantly reduce your risk of dental caries. (30-70% Jenkins et al, 1985. ) Also, having a professional license makes me feel like a real grown-up. Especially the part where I have to pay a lot of money.

I texted Richard and reminded him that our car has its third flat tire in as many months and he asked me to take care of it. Wha? I do my best to defy gender stereotypes, but flat tires? No thanks.  But since I do my best to defy gender stereotypes I decided to have a go at it.  Mind you, our car is a rental so fixing the flat tire consists of making a phone call to the rental company who sends someone to fix the tire. HA! (Insert emoticon with squinchy eyes and protruded tongue.) 

So I made the phone call and the man showed up.  He called me from outside my house and his accent was thick. I inferred that he wanted me to come out to the car so I threw on my coat and Simon put on some shoes and out we went. 

“You’ve got a puncher,” 
“Excuse me?”
“A puncher.”  
(That must be what the British call a flat tire.)
“A flat tire?”
“Yeah. A slow leaking puncher.”  
He hands me a paper to sign, whereupon I see the words. 
Slow leak puncture.
Ah. Right. 
“It’s a high car?”
“Um…. I don’t know…”
“A HIGH car?!” 
“Oh! A hire car. Yes.”  (Rental car.) 

He said he would inflate the tire so I could drive the car to the repair shop, but I panicked a bit because I needed to get to the kid’s school in time to pick them up.  He reassured me I would be fine. At least I think that is what he said. He used a clever gadget that connected to the car battery to pump up the tire while I grabbed shoes for myself and coat for Simon.  Then we drove the car to the tire place and dropped it off.  This is the part where I felt like a big girl.  

I knew exactly where the tire place was. I knew that we could catch the DLR at Greenwich, just a few hundred feet from the tire place and take it one stop to Deptford Bridge, which was just a quick walk from the kids school.  We did exactly that and got there just in time,  It felt like home.  I felt like I knew what I was doing.  And it felt good! Even Simon was impressed when we walked past his Nursery and he realized we had gone from the tire place to the school in the blink of an eye. It was stress-free and I’m quite proud.  

Then we came home from school and I resumed 100 loads of laundry and made Macaroni and Cheese from scratch with Snickerdoodles for dessert.  I haven’t been this productive since I had a real job.  

G’night folks.  

This last week I was so sick.  I think I was about nine different kinds of sick.  It included a bad cough, sore throat, body aches, chills, a migraine that involved numbness, vomiting and a “floaters” and a trip to A&E (the ER), then digestive illness and some stress related maladies that occasional come and take up residence in my body.  I spent most of the week in bed and medicated.  Fortunately Richard was able to be really flexible with his work schedule and did most of the school drop-offs and pick-ups and all the other fun parenting responsibilities.  But this morning he left for his church meetings, and I was back on my own.  

Still a little bit short on energy, and severely short on patience, I finally gave up.  I was so tired of the kids bickering and whining that I said 

“Fine.  You’re on your own.  If you want to go to church then you better get yourselves dressed.  If you don’t want to go, fine.”  

Then I plopped right down in the black chair, that was conveniently located in the sunniest part of the house and I watched.  Cameron realized I was completely serious and he took charge.  He ordered the kids around and took a shower and dressed himself.  Miriam dressed herself.  Simon even dressed himself.  I knew Eli would be the wild card, but miraculously by 9:47 he was ready to go.  I supposed I had no choice but to load up the car and drive them to church. (A little bit disappointed they had pulled it off…)  We went without me brushing Miriam’s hair, without writing Eli’s primary talk, and with Eli hopping on one foot because he said his shoes were too small. (But only on the left foot.) 

Today was Fast Sunday, which means that members of the congregation stand at the pulpit and share their feelings about the gospel.  In our ward in Kuna, where there were 150 children, it got to be a problem on these Sundays because the children would start lining up at the pulpit and the line would go all across the stand and down the steps into the congregation.  With some direction from ward leadership, Richard and I taught our kids that they were always welcome to share their testimonies at home or in primary, but to save time in the testimony meeting for adults who would like to participate.  

So today when Miriam came up to me (looking quite disheveled) and asked if kids were allowed to bear their testimony I wasn’t quite sure how to respond.  Our ward is small enough here that there are often periods of silence, and there are also so few children that it is extremely rare to see a child at the pulpit.  I asked her what she wanted to say and she whispered a few things about Jesus. I deferred to Richard, and seeing that she was quite serious we decided to let her go ahead.  

She walked up to the pulpit, with her messy blonde head, nervous but determined, and shared the thoughts that were on her mind. This is what she said, as best I can recall. 

“I want to bear my testimony. I know the church is true. I know that Jesus loves us and cares about us.  I know that he died for us to go back to Heaven.  Jesus gave us the scriptures and the gospel. Sometimes my mom is sick and stays in bed a lot.  My dad makes the food and we take care of her.  I love my mom and dad and I know they love me.  They teach me good things like to love people no matter what.  I do things that they like, and they do things that I like.  I know the gospel is true. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”

She spoke slowly, clearly, deliberately.  My world seemed to stop while I listened to her, and I could feel my own heart pounding. The moment she finished there was an audible sigh of adoration from the congregation. (As I said, children are a novelty.)  I felt slightly embarrassed about being labeled an invalid, but mostly I was just completely full of love for her.  She is a strong little girl, and I am so grateful for that.  She will do the world good.  

I’m really not that great at recognizing God’s hand in my life.  It’s not that I don’t feel gratitude, it’s just that I think my pride prevents me from giving God the credit for all my blessings and even/especially these little moments.  But I thought about how I was completely willing to skip church today.  When we got to church I told Richard I was surprised we were there at all.  But we were.  And it was a Sunday I’ll never forget.  Something bigger than I am, and bigger than Mim’s sweet soul, lit a fire inside her that gave her the idea and the courage to stand up and share.  And if that’s not a tender mercy, I’m even worse than I thought at understanding them.  

I have been fortunate in my life to not have had many occasions for attending funerals. I can probably count on one hand the number of funerals I’ve been to.  Yesterday Richard and I attended the funeral of Kim Barnes, a new friend to us, a member of our ward here in London. 

Despite living with illness and disabilities, Kim’s death still came as a shock to me.  I knew she had been in the hospital, and unfortunately I had procrastinated taking the kids to see her, and upon learning that she had passed away, my grief was all the more exquisite at the idea that I would not be able to tell her, in this life, how much I appreciated and admired her kindness.

Kim was in the primary at church, which meant she devoted a lot of time to planning, preparing and doing things for my children.  The primary here is small, on a good Sunday there might be 12 children at church, so Kim knew them all individually and cared for them.  Instead of the small primary discouraging her from working hard to make positive experiences for the kids, I think it encouraged her.

Aside from my personal gratitude for Kim’s efforts and kindness, I also admired her for her loyalty, optimism and selfless service.  It is my nature to avoid anything that can’t be done with convenience, but because of Kim’s health problems, nothing was convenient for her, and yet she was always involved.  The photo I posted of Kim was on Remembrance Day, this last fall when the LDS Catford Ward was asked to present a wreath at the Greenwich Remembrance Day Ceremony.  Kim had volunteered to be involved and I just asked if I could come along. 

Kim’s brother Jon wrote the Eulogy for her funeral, but asked that someone else read it.  He told the story of a time when he teased his sister that what she needed was a full-body transplant; to which Kim responded that her disabilities had made her into the person that she was.  Jon went on to say that even though he loved her dearly, he believed her to be so sincere in that remark, that he wouldn’t change her broken body even if he could.

I appreciated that story because I’m coming to a belief that in some part, perhaps in great part, the goodness we each possess comes not in spite of our difficulties, but because of them.  This simple belief is often, for me, the pathway to forgiveness and gratitude.  My friend Lindsey recently wrote on her blog about how her daughter’s disabilities bring out the best in people around her, and Lindsey feels so grateful for the chance to see unselfishness and charity offered to her sweet little girl. 

I think funerals can be sacred events.  There is so much love, comfort, and empathy in those rooms.  I also believe that we are sanctified by our grief, and when we grieve together we love more deeply.

I’m grateful for Kim’s example in my life, I’m grateful we moved here when we did so that I could have the chance to know her, and my kids could know her as well.  I’m grateful I could attend her funeral and learn a bit more about her and her brave mortal experience.  

My friend Keely texted me last week to tell me about a family activity the British Museum was having on Saturday called an Egyptian Photo Booth.  (She obviously knows of Eli’s obsession with all things Egyptian.)  Both Richard and I were getting a little stir crazy after a month of Saturday’s at home so we jumped on the chance to get out, and… the British Museum! 

We didn’t quite understand what exactly it was all about until we got there, and then we wished we would have had Eli wear his Pharaoh costume, but we still had fun making these comics. 

After the photo booth we ate lunch in the family dining area.  Keely told me about this too- and it’s brilliant.  They have taken an old part of the museum and turned it into a locker room/ indoor picnic area.  It’s so practical and so family friendly, and yet you still feel like you’re in a really cool old building.  Museum cafes are great for a quick snack when I’m alone or with Simon, but feeding the whole family at a museum cafe can be expensive, crowded and offer limited kid-friendly options.  It was really quiet in this room, and it was also really nice to put all our coats and our lunch in the locker.

After lunch we went back upstairs and made our way through the Egyptian and Greek exhibits.  As usual, Eli was engrossed, Cameron was mildly amused and Miriam and Simon were quickly bored.  We made the best of it, and I took some photos of a few of my favorite artifacts.  

This is the Nereid Monument, a Lykian tomb from south-west Turkey, dated 380 B.C. 

Sometimes when I’m at these museums I start to feel overwhelmed.  I read a caption about Lykian culture and my mind is completely blank. What/who/where was Lycia? (I only know how to spell that because I looked it up.)  This world is so expansive.  It’s history so infinte. And my knowledge so infinitesimally small.  I enjoy learning little bits here and there, but I also feel a great conflict.  It’s a battle between an insatiable hunger to learn more and a complete discouragement and inadequacy that fosters ambivalence.  

So that about sums up my museum experiences, and many other of my experiences here in London and in my life in general.  Tempering the discouragement with enthusiasm, and shedding inadequacy for optimism and gratitude.  

By this point Miriam and SImon were completely spent, so Richard took them back down to the locker room and I took Cameron and Eli upstairs just to do a quick walk-through of the mummies. 

After we left the museum on our way back to the tube station we passed a park. I always feel like a park is the least I can offer Simon (and all the kids, really) after dragging him through a museum for three hours.  

January is notorious with accountants worldwide for the beginning of the most arduous weeks of the calendar year from a professional standpoint.  We have known many a busy season in our home- many busy seasons that have involved extensive travel and Saturday work-days.  Fortunately none of Richard’s busy seasons have lived up to the horror stories we have heard and continue to hear, but make no mistake, we know the busy season.  

This year I decided to take January easy.  I gave myself a pass to take a break from tourism and just spend the cold and dreary days at home reading, resting and taking on most parental responsibilities while Richard work work worked.  We made no plans for our weekends and we just laid low. 

Richard and I both braced ourselves for his busy season, for late nights and long Saturdays.  And then they never came.  One week Richard was feeling worn out and we laughed about it, because he said that the lack of intensity meant there was no adrenaline kick-in that usually helps him get through this time of year. He has had busy days for sure, but we’ve counted our blessings that by and large he has been able to meet his responsibilities in his regular work week.  And his travel, a quick trip to Basel and a delightful jaunt in Barcelona, were nothing to complain about.  

[ Somewhat related anecdote: Last week, I signed up for a continuing education class so that I would be able to renew my hygiene license in Idaho.  I made arrangements for all the kids, and my friend Nicole planned to pick up Simon from school.  At a break during my course (which lasted all day) I noticed I had missed two calls from Simon’s school so I texted Richard and asked him to call the school.  Simon ended up vomiting at school, and on the bus with Nicole, but Richard was able to leave work and go pick him up and take him home.  It was so frustrating to me that the ONE DAY I make myself unavailable is the day that my child pukes at school. But it was such a relief that Richard was able to step in.  Richard’s work experience here has been so much less demanding than it was back in the states and I think we are both going to miss that quite a bit when we return.]

In any case, January turned out to be a dull and uneventful month for the Birds across the pond.  And I’m considering that a success!  

A few January photos from my phone that didn’t make it onto Instagram:

Back in the fall when I was still comfortably walking home from the school in a t-shirt, my friend Nicole told me that London gets really cold in the winter.  Bone-chilling cold, she said.  This made no sense to me at all, especially because Nicole is from Wisconsin.  I chalked it up to hyperbole and counted my blessings that London is a “temperate oceanic climate” with mild winters.  

With January behind me, I want to give Nicole her credit, and apologize for underestimating her experience.  London is cold.  Both Richard and I have had days this winter where we just could not get warm; a bath or shower would be required to reach the level of cold, we felt as it were, in our bones.  This baffled me, because we come from Idaho, where temperatures are consistently below freezing.  Temperatures in London rarely get below freezing, or subzero if you’re speaking in Celsius.  So why? Why are we so cold all the time?  

I’ve come up with a few satisfactory answers to that question, but ultimately I think it is related to lifestyle. 

One is that the humidity makes it feel colder.  Which I think is true, and I read various scientific explanations for that but it comes down to a damp cold being more chilly than a dry cold. 

Another reason is that London is so cloudy and foggy.  Which is true, London is cloudy nearly every single day.  But the funny thing about London, is that it is also sunny nearly every single day.  The sunshine is often short-lived and in a large city surrounded by tall buildings it is sometimes to difficult to access it’s rays, but I’ve paid particular attention and London has offered me more sun in January than Boise ever does.  (Inversion. Am I right?) The days are also very short in London in the winter, which probably also contributes to the chill.  

Additionally, London is cold because the buildings are old, and often poorly insulated.  I can personally vouch for this. Our house is old, with original windows, and I can literally feel the cold air coming through the glass.  I love our old windows, they are full of charm, but they make it very difficult to keep the house warm.  Also, our house is heated via radiators, that don’t BLOW air, they just get hot, and the heat emanates into the room, This works fine in small rooms, but downstairs in our kitchen-dining area, the kids all bring their blankets to breakfast because it is SO cold.  When at home,  you will usually find me wearing a puffy vest or scarf or fleece or blanket or all of the above.  The same is true in the kid’s school. It is a really old building and the kids are required to wear their fleece/jumper in the winter. 

So combining all of the aforementioned reasons, with the following comparison, I’ve concluded why I am so cold in London. 

In Boise, when the outdoor temperature is 30° F, this is what I do.  I put on a jacket or coat.  I go into my garage and get into my car, which is a little chilly but only takes a few  minutes to warm up.  I drive my kids to their school, where I remain comfortably seated in my warm car while they run into the playground.  I drive home, get out of my car in my garage and walk into my house, having never actually had to go outside.  When I need to run an errand, I repeat the process, spending approximately 38 seconds walking from my warm car that I’ve parked in the parking lot, into the grocery store/office/home I’ve driven to.  

In London, when the outdoor temperature is -1° C (30° F), this is what I do.  I put a coat and gloves and a scarf and a hat on myself and my four children.  We walk out the door and walk eight minutes to the bus stop.  We wait at the bus stop for 2-5 minutes.  We get in the bus (warm! yay!) for about 10 minutes.  We get off the bus and walk five minutes to the school. We wait outside in the schoolyard for five minutes until the children line up and the teachers escort them into the building.  Then I walk home, about a 20 minute walk.  In the last hour, I’ve spent 50 of the 60 minutes, outside.  Then if I have any errands to run, it involves a similar process, either walking to the destination, or walking and waiting outside for buses and trains.  I spend a lot of time outside.  

I LOVE this about London. I love spending so much time outside.  But it gets COLD.  And then when I come home into my drafty house, it is really hard to get warm.  

For that reason, I am quite ready for spring.  Bring back that “temperate oceanic climate” please. 

I’ve heard quite a bit about how the British keep to themselves, and I’ve definitely felt at times like making friends has me up against an impenetrable wall.  But thankfully, having kids at the same school/church/bus stop has been a natural ice breaker and this is how I’ve met people. 

I’ve been invited for tea or into the homes of five of my London friends and I’ve been reflecting about it because I’ve realized a few things about myself.

This is another one of those posts that I find really difficult to write authentically without sounding and feeling like a snob, so…there’s that.

I’ve begun to challenge my beliefs a bit. (And by beliefs I am not referring to the ideals I aspire to, but the actual ideas in my head that are the place from which I make decisions and are the biggest influence on my behavior.)

I’m not going to place any blame or make any speculations about where these beliefs come from and why, be it American culture or religious culture, middle-class privilege, or family and social influences.  I’ll let that be. But I am going to share some of the beliefs that I’ve discovered have taken root in my head, for better or worse, right or wrong, true or false.

– My home is a representation of my sense of style, financial merit, priorities, interests and artistry (or lack thereof.) And therefore, is a reflection of my talents, my effort and my skills. Which must also mean that my worth is directly related to how well I decorate and keep house.

– As such, visitors to my home will either be more or less likely to value me as a person, want to pursue our friendship, or enjoy their experience depending on the size, cleanliness and esthetics of my rooms. 

– The state of my home and my possessions has significant influence over my friend’s opinions of me, therefore it is extremely important that I do everything I can to make said influence a positive one. 

– (In other words, I use my home as a tool to try control other people’s perceptions of who I am, what I am good at, what I believe, what I care about.)

– In conclusion, it is not safe for me to invite people over when I can’t carefully prepare, so as to avoid the greatest risk to defects of character that might be exposed if my house were messy and I didn’t have something deliciously prepared for my guests.  

I know that sounds really dramatic, but well, that’s what it’s like inside my head.

After my experiences in the homes of my friends, it seems they don’t share these beliefs.

A bus stop friend of mine invited me up to her flat for tea one morning after we dropped off our kids at school.  It was spontaneous (which I could never do because of my aforementioned need for adequate preparation, even though I consider myself to be a spontaneous person.)  Her flat was messy and I had to brush aside Legos and crayons to make a seat on the couch.  It was also quite small, one bedroom and her two boys sleep in the front room.  But we chatted and laughed and watched an episode of a British cooking show.  I remember feeling shocked that she had invited me up when her place was in such a state of disarray.  But I also felt tremendous relief in realizing that it didn’t affect the quality of our visit together and really hasn’t influenced my opinion of her or my desire to be her friend in any negative ways.  Mostly I just felt really grateful she had invited me.

Another friend of my mine invited me and my four kids over to her place for tea. (Which, it turns out is more like a late afternoon meal and not just a hot cuppa.)  Perhaps because of my insecurities about having a lot of kids, and perhaps because I’m accustomed to larger spaces, I always have a little anxiety about taking all four of my kids into anyone’s home.  But she seemed totally unconcerned, and the kids all had a great time.

My experience in my other friends’ homes has been similar.  Equally enjoyable, often spontaneous, and also in homes that are the opposite of the suburban sprawls that flood my Pinterest feed, filling my subconscious with ideas about what a kitchen should look like.   

I don’t mean to imply that my friends here are slobs.  None are.  But their homes are small spaces, lived in spaces, spaces occupied by children.  There are photos on the walls of their travels, sometimes in frames, sometimes not.  There are puzzles on the dining table, or under it.  And of course, there is always, in any British home, laundry drying somewhere or everywhere.

Keeping in mind also that nearly all of my friends work, at least part time, there isn’t much in the way of DIY custom cabinets or cute holiday crafted décor.  I never feel like any of my friends are ever using their home or their possessions to impress me, in any way.

I’m not trying to criticize any of these things.  No matter what my beliefs, a well-kept home will always be important to me.  But I’m just realizing that the things I do in my home, are about me and for me.  They don’t really influence my friendships the way I imagine they do.  My home might manifest my creativity, but it doesn’t manifest my worth.  I can be a warm and loving friend, in a messy and small house.  I can offer my guests whatever is in my cupboards without fear of disapproval.  Even though I am still terrified of inviting people over, I feel the beginning of a new kind of women’s liberation.  And chances are, all my friends, wherever they live, care less about my house than I ever imagined.  My feelings of inadequacy are more likely perceived and assumed rather than reality.

What an amazing gift they have given me.  What an amazing gift to give someone else.  To say “I don’t feel pressure to impress you by having/displaying/owning certain things, because I accept you as you are, whether or not you have/display/own those things.”

Come as you are. To my home. As it is. 

My dad loves to walk.  I remember on a gorgeous autumn day back in Boise I was at work and a patient cancelled, leaving me with a long lunch.  I knew my dad had the day off so I called him and we met up for an afternoon walk, and then lunch at Fresh Off the Hook.  As we walked he described to me neighborhoods all over the city that he had seen on walks.  He will walk for miles and for hours. 

My dad especially loves to walk in new places, new cities, new neighborhoods.  When he came to visit us in London this summer he walked and walked.  It inspires me, and has instilled a love for walking in my own heart.  Walking in London has been a great way for me to see the city, release some of the stress of motherhood, and enjoy alone time.  When I had a few hours in Basel to myself, and all the museums were closed, walking was an exciting prospect.  

I was lucky to come across a large map posted on a sign in the main plaza, that listed a few city walks.  I chose one that best suited my time frame and the places I wanted to see, and then I followed the signs and walked through the city.  I stopped for hot chocolate when I got really cold and I stopped in a shop to buy a Christmas ornament.  Other than that, I just walked. 

The Munsterplatz is the open plaza surrounding the Basel Cathedral.  The Cathedral was so pretty, particularly because the sun was shining on it directly, making it have that bright amber color.  

Erasmus was buried in the Cathedral and there is a monument inside for him.  I didn’t know who he was until I came home and researched, and found him to be a person I relate to quite well.  I’d love to read some of his writing. 

After I finished the city walk, I crossed back over the river and watched the most lovely pink sunset from the opposite bank, with the Cathedral in the skyline.  

(After we got home I saw on Facebook that there had been a beautiful sunset in Boise on New Year’s Eve too, and a friend of mine who lives in Michigan shared a pic on Facebook of her sunset as well.  It felt kind of sentimental to me, all around the world the Earth was saying good-bye to 2014 with a magenta sky.)  

I went back to the hotel and met up with the gang for dinner.  We thought about getting take-away to bring back to the hotel and eat there, but we made a few phone calls and nothing was open.  I was still holding out hope for a good Swiss restaurant because I still hadn’t tried raclette, so we went back into the city, but there wasn’t much open in the city either.  At last we settled on, wait for it… McDonald’s.  There you have it folks.  Sometimes romantic holiday ideals get trampled by the simple practicality of cheap and quick.  

When the subject of the fireworks came up, Richard and I could not for the life of us think of why it would be a good idea to take four kids, under 10 to a fireworks show at MIDNIGHT when we had to catch a 6:00AM flight, and that doesn’t even touch on the fact that it was SO cold outside.  So after dinner we went home and went to bed early.  

HAPPY NEW YEAR WORLD! 

We woke up early, dressed most of the kids, (we let Simon stay in his jammies) and took a taxi to the airport.  Mim slept the entire flight home, and I was lucky enough to be sitting in a row with her and Cameron.  Cameron entertained himself with the iPad or a book or something I can’t recall because I think I slept most of the flight home as well.  

When we arrived in the airport back in London I noticed an American family with four small kids.  We were in line with them at customs and I asked where they were from.  They were from Florida, and they had just come in on the red-eye on their way to Scotland to begin their adventure there.  It reminded me so much of me, and us and I tried to offer her some quick encouragement but I think she was too exhausted and stressed to pay much notice.  It brought back so many memories, and made me feel so grateful all over again for this opportunity we have.  

We got back to our house around 9:00AM.  (There was virtually NO traffic on New Years Day in London at 8:00AM- bonus!)  We changed into our BSU comfies, and sat down with some snacks and Christmas chocolate, and watched the Fiesta Bowl.  GO Broncos! 

Then we took baths and naps and put our pajamas on and were completely lazy the rest of the afternoon. 

We decided to spend our last night in Basel because our flight was so early in the morning on Thursday.  Someone had also told us about fireworks in Basel on New Year’s Eve, and it saved us some money to return the rental car a day early.  Wednesday morning we cleaned up, packed up, loaded up and headed out.  It was sad to say good-bye to our dear chalet.  

We returned the rental car at the airport, took a bus from the airport to the train station, and then took a tram to our hotel.  Things got a little crazy at the train station because we had all our luggage, plus the car seats and Richard was trying to find out what kind of tickets we needed to take the tram. (Turns out we didn’t need tickets at all.  Chalk that one up to the language barrier and 30 francs later…) 

The kids were a little restless and at one point one of them said to me “Mom. Why is everyone staring at us?” 
Bird Family Circus.  

After we checked in at the hotel we took the tram back into the old part of town to eat some lunch and explore.  We settled on another pizza place – it was tasty but not as good as the one in Zurich.  We ran into the same problem on this day as we did on our first day- National Holiday.  So none of the museums were open, which was disappointing because there was a paper mill museum that gets rave reviews.  We took the kids to see some frozen fountains, and they pretended to ice skate on the snow.

While watching the ice skating performances Richard and I discussed our options for entertaining the kids in a cold, mostly shut-down city.   Eventually we concluded that the kids were done with Switzerland.  Richard took the them back to the hotel where it was warm and they watched movies. Richard took a hot shower and had a nice nap and I hit the town.  Just me and my camera and a few Swiss francs. 

Since I was totally alone, I took a lot of pictures.  I like them all though, so I’ll divide this into two posts.  That also means I can go to bed now.