Month: August 2014

From the moment we got to Trixie’s new nursery school, I knew things were going to be different. Not just because the space itself is a gorgeous three-story Georgian home opposite a sprawling playing field, whereas her Brooklyn preschool was in an old schoolhouse with a concrete slab for outdoor space and a gym in the basement. Cosmetic allure aside, there are a few things that set this English nursery school apart.

It wasn’t an ordeal to get in. Unlike Brooklyn, I wasn’t required to visit the school or (as in some cases) put Trixie through an interview process to apply for admission. All I did was send a pleading e-mail, informing the manager that we were about to move to England and if I didn’t get my daughter into a nursery school she wouldn’t make any friends and she’d hate her new life and we’d all drown in our own misery. Bam. Done.

It’s total chaos … but organized chaos. I’m no longer fooled by the lush front lawn, sparsely strewn with children’s playthings and muddy wellies: inside the foyer, it is anarchy. Kids everywhere, caregivers trailing behind, and an alarm—a sort of muffled but constant wail. The siren seems to trigger whenever the front door is ajar (a reassuring thought, should a toddler be nimble and tall enough to twist the lock and escape). When the door shuts and the alarm stops, boisterous energy ebbs and flows between rooms. One plush-carpeted room leads to the next, each floor separating the different age groups in a Hogwarts-esque fashion from Minnows, to Puffins, to Tigers and Giraffes. Heaps of babies and toddlers giggle and cry; sing and play. And by pick-up time, the kids are never found quietly waiting at 4 p.m. sharp, as I relied on in Brooklyn; no, it’s anyone’s guess where I’ll find Trixie, from the playhouse on the front lawn, to the field over the road, or maybe reading a story in the classroom. Like I said—anarchy! And yet, somehow it works.

There’s a special school-issued bag. On the first day, I was given a pink cloth sack with the school’s logo and told to personalize it, fill it with spare clothes, and bring it back. I managed to throw in some extra princess undies, but completely forgot to ‘Trixify’ it. And so, on her second day, I foolishly scrawled her name across the label with Sharpie. Bad move. Turns out, most of her classmates bags are embellished with patchwork, buttons, and even macramé. Damn you, English parents! Needless to say, I went to my mother-in-law’s begging for colored ribbons, and hurriedly sewed an array of vibrant tassels onto Trixie’s bag. God forbid my daughter become the loser-new-girl with an uncaring, uninspired American mom.

The cirriculum is different. I’ve always been curious if my daughter was taught anything other than macaroni necklace techniques at her school in Brooklyn, but up on the third floor of her new nursery (I mean second floor, because the wacky English call the first floor the ground floor, and the second floor the first floor and—help!), the Tigers dress as knights and ladies for Medieval studies, and have a weekly French lesson during which they name and then eat fresh fruit from the market. Tres magnifique!

The field trips are less stressful (for me). In Brooklyn, the idea of toddler outings used to panic me. I’m not super-overprotective, but there was a lot of traffic and—I dunno—it just seemed like a lot of effort. Here, however, watching the kids don their tabards (aka neon yellow vests) and scurry down off-road passageways to the local farmers market to buy flowers, I feel totally at ease. I suppose maybe the organic cheese monger at the library-parking-lot market could accost them as they’re selecting a dazzling bouquet of foxgloves … but I think I’ll chance it.

Originally posted on Momtastic.com

“Mama!” Trixie screams from her new bedroom. “There are loads of rolly pollies in my room. Loads of ’em!”

First I laugh at her phrasing. “Loads.” Not something she used to say, but a word that has nestled into her vocabulary since we moved to England two weeks ago. With a sigh, I put down my computer and climb two creaky flights of stairs to my daughter’s bedroom, grabbing a dustpan and broom along the way, and begin the nightly ritual of scooping up rolly polly bugs and throwing them out the window. One, two, three … seven, eight … twelve.

At least I got her to stop calling them wood lice, I remind myself, wincing when a particularly fat one squirms as he flips into the pan.

But alas, rolly pollies—or wood lice or pill bugs or butcher boys—are part of our everyday life now. I asked for it, as my mother-in-law likes to remind me. “There are plenty of nice flats in our town, but nooo, my daughter-in-law said she had to have a place with character, and that’s what she got.”

What can I say? It’s true. I decided that if I was going to move all the way from Brooklyn to rural England, I wanted a place with oodles of charm. No more seedy, brown-tiled foyers, no more broken buzzers or chain-smoking supers lurking in the basement. Been there, done that. And now, here I am, in paradise—a delightful three-story cottage built circa 1750. Dark wooden beams hold up the ceiling; quaint stable doors separate each room; vibrant pink roses climb the stone facade; and a swing-set perches on the edge of our flower-filled garden, perfect for our three-year-old daughter. Our neighbors are lovely, and my Facebook friends drool with envy over the bucolic setting. The whole thing is, well, perfect.

But it’s also an old house. Like, really frigging old. So old that it was built before the invention of wedged sneakers and high heels, back when people didn’t need more than 5’8″ of clearance to walk through a room. That’s okay though, I tell myself, because it’s beautiful here. The birds chirping outside our window are a hell of a lot nicer than New York’s police sirens or the guy yelling at his dog in the next apartment building over. Our cottage has character and history. The claw-foot tub is to-die-for. Come winter, I’m going to curl up in front of our very own log fire. And all those tucked-away cupboards and tiny latched doors that Trixie has found? They’re great! They’re charming, they’re fun, and they’re perfect for hide and seek—as long as I remind myself that these are not the same cupboards used in a horror movie I once saw about the vengeful ghost of a mistreated child.

Actually, helping Trixie acclimate to her new surroundings has been a lifesaver. Instead of shrieking at the sight of slugs and spiders, the two of us have become entomologists, grabbing butterfly nets and magnifying glasses as we embrace the great outdoors. After watching a little boy get nipped by one of the local horses the other day, we now know to lay our palms flat when feeding horses and stroking their manes. And even though I’d give anything for a yellow cab to swoop in and cart me up the Everest-like hill to our cottage, Trixie and I love discovering secret passageways home. Plus, it turns out, her scooter makes an excellent Mom-pulled chariot when she’s too tired to climb any further (nevermind that I’m six months pregnant as I schlep a three-year-old up said mountain).

All I have to do now is adapt—learn to duck my head around the wooden beams; smile at the sight of wood lice; and eventually stop worrying that evil spirits are using Trixie’s bath letters to send messages from beyond the grave. I’ll figure it out because my heart swells when I see Trixie and our six-year-old neighbor playing together on the swing-set, and I’m already comforted by the sound of her tiny feet pitter-pattering down the wooden stairs each morning as she jumps into our bed for a cuddle.

Maybe country life is going to be creepy, but it’s awesome, too. And, hey, I asked for it.

[Published at Momtastic.com]