Any Given Moment

I am stirring Pad Thai noodles into an overcooked stir-fry concoction, brown rice is on its way. The early evening has settled on the kitchen like a beehive on a bear’s head. Lea is reciting from Kingfisher, The Sea is Salty. Her little voice melts words and sentences into an ongoing phonetic stream. Zoë, after a frenzied half-hour search, has located her mobile and is chatting away, oblivious of her surroundings. And Julian is beating his tambourine, shouting some staccato nonsense into the air which is already replete with sound bites, “Pow-uh-ane-juh, pow-uh-ane-juh...” “The Gulper Eel has an enormous mouth, look!” Lea lets us know and adds, “He can eat prey several times it’s own size.” I try to steady my eyes for a second on the open pages, while continuing to stir. The doorbell rings, and then the phone. I answer the first and Julian beats me to the second. Pinching a Royal Mail delivery under one arm, I snatch the receiver out of his grubby hand and hiss, “Go wash you hands, NOW!” before answering with an unadulterated British accent (eighteen months of practice and this is the best I can do...), “Hilowwh?” Water is splashing, Zoë is giggling, Lea has moved on to the Angler Fish. My friend has been diagnosed with cancer.

Somewhere the rice is dutifully burning.

Scooooot!

There is not a single time I enter a room in our house without picking up the one or other odd item on my way. Remember the mouse a couple of weeks ago? Although that was a tad bit beyond my normal load, there are always stray Legos and their relatives, abandoned socks of all colors, and at least a couple of shriveled up coloring pens sorrowfully awaiting my arrival. In fact, so much of my life is about reclaiming my space...I have dug myself out of a ton of stuff to regain the surface, it’s become second nature. And mind you, not all of it has been as harmless as children’s toys.

"Good Afternoon, ...

...I am calling about the crossroads at High Street and Pembroke Road. I am concerned with the lack of pedestrian lights.”

I practiced that line in the bathroom this morning and I expect some interruption like, “But there are pedestrian islands on two sides.” I have made this call and similar ones before and I know the full bandwidth of replies. One of my favorites is “This intersection has a low priority with the Transport Commission, because there have been no fatalities so far.”

On my earlier calls, I ventured as far as questioning pedestrian safety standards in all of the UK. Why not, once you’re at it? But this time I am more cautious and a wee bit more concise.

“The problem is,” I continue, “that it is a very busy crossroads with turning lanes on all four sides, and short green periods so the cars zip around the corner like pin balls...”

I pause, waiting for some acknowledgment but for lack thereof I add, “You see, it is rather challenging for children to estimate speed and distance, and...” But this time he has a verdict ready for me, “Pedestrians cross at their own risk, and children should not cross streets unsupervised.”

Ah, yes, now he’s found a familiar tune: Blame the parent, children belong behind closed (and preferably locked) doors/in the back seat of an armored vehicle. Obviously, I have landed with a hard-liner.

However, ironically, the one time, when there actually was a close call, Zoë was with my mom, and it was my mom who needed the extra help.

But it’s useless. He has boxed and stacked me. Me, the negligent parent who assumes that crossing high street should be manageable without risking life or limb.

As if!

More on the subject of...

Julian: My Pene (penis) doesn’t talk. He just pees.
(Roaring laughter from Zoë)
Julian:
(Slightly indignant) Don’t laugh at Pene. It’s not his fault.

Hear, hear!

Barack Hussein Obama, now there is a person with a fair amount of emotional intelligence.
Have you had a chance to listen to the speech he gave at Al-Azhar university in Cairo a couple of days ago? Good stuff. In my opinion, he could have elaborated a bit more on the point he was trying to make about US courts upholding the right of muslim women to wear a head scarf in public. It seemed a bit sycophantic. But overall, he did well and he did send a clear message that past errors should not haphazard future opportunities. Well done.

It would be really nice if he survived.

Shove this where the sun don't shine!

I might have mentioned before that getting into a reputable secondary school in the UK is not easily done. It takes a lot of time and energy (not to mention money) and the road is arduous and annoyingly narrow. Endless hours of tutoring and booklets upon booklets of mock tests and online coaching are offset only by a handful of canceled vacation. Not a good deal, I say.

But then, Brits seemingly like to test, quiz and outwit each other. It’s a bizarre national sport, just like cricket, which no-one in there right mind cares to watch. It must be something that makes their adrenaline roar.

When I complained about one of these exams, pointing out that young children are forced to perform like monkeys and that the tests are designed to trick them and put them under pressure, to my surprise, the parent, who otherwise seems fairly level headed, argued that “Children like to shine.” Yeah, in the sun!!