Tiggy

A few days ago, we turned in "Tiggy."  Our beloved 2010 Volkswagen Tiguan, needing significant repair, was traded in for a new vehicle.  This post reflects on who she was, and what she meant to us.

Beginnings

We bought Tiggy in 2010, when we lived in Germany.  Our daughter was one month old, and I had just totaled my dear Gold 1.  We needed a new car, and Tiggy fit the bill.  A 2010 Tiguan, she was a smaller SUV with enough backseat space for tall adults to sit comfortably, with plenty of pep for autobahn travels.  We never gave her a 'proper' name, calling her Tiggy or (on occasion) Tiggy Pop.  Tiggy would stick with the children.

Adventures

Tiggy was with is from February 2010- August 2018.  During that time, we had many adventures.    The highlights:

2010-11: Our first real road trip as a family of three, we drove her to Prague in June 2010.  We'd subsequently take her on many European adventures; after Germany and Czech, we'd take trips through France, Netherlands, Luxembourg, Belgium, and Austria.

Tiggy in Prague, 2010.  After driving her in, she was lowered underground to dissuade theft.

Touring our local Rhein River region.

Amsterdam!

July 2011: Papa and I drove her from Germany to our new home in England.  We took a few days to explore the sights along the way, stopping at Verdun, Rheims, and Dunkirk on the continent before taking the ferry to Dover (enjoying the white cliffs!).  After arrival in England, we saw Canterbury and Cambridge on our way up to Harrogate.  It was quite the adventure driving her on the left-hand side of the road!

2011-14: Great Britain adventures!  Tiggy safely carried us on many road trips in England, Scotland, and Wales.  Most were day trips, taken with my daughter when my wife was pregnant.  And in July 2012, Tiggy takes our new arrival, a son, home from the hospital.  We loved English Heritage sites (castles and abbeys), Cornwall, and a personal favorite was driving her through the North York Moors.

Summer 2014: In America!  Tiggy for the first time in the USA.

2014-18: First home and commute!  Tiggy was there as we shopped for homes and became first-time home buyers in 2014.  She'd get me safely to work . . . she was in the shop a few times, but for minor things.  At this point, we used our other vehicle to transport our family of five (we had a third child in 2015), and so Tiggy was mostly mine (and she drove in only four states- PA, MD, DE, and VA).  I added some stickers, and the kids loved riding in her; they'd often request to do so on the weekends.

August 2018: The end; the 'check engine' light came on one Sunday afternoon, and a shop visit confirmed our worst fear: a new timing belt (and maybe more) was required.  Time to turn her in.

Tiggy in the shop lot

Reflections

After Gold 1, I didn't think I'd enjoy another car as much.  But Tiggy grew on me, and I'm genuinely sorry to see her go- the whole family is in mourning. 

She rarely gave me any problems; none in the 18 months we owned her in Germany. 
in England:
- broken radiator
- flat tire (I drove over a screw in Cornwall)
in America:
- dent in front quarter panel (I nicked a post at a Sonic)
- dents in door panels (from careless parking lot incidents by others)
- dead battery (not unexpected)
- electronic brake malfunction
- chips in windshield (some might big ones, but they were fixable)
- sticking gas tank panel (easily fixed)
- timing chain and probably more (thus causing her demise)

That's it- almost 9 years, 105,986 miles, 11 countries, 4 states, with just one major issue.  And even that would have been covered by a VW class action lawsuit just released, had she been under 100,000 miles.

It sounds so silly, but when I lose a car, I feel a part of me is lost. Why?  It was "just a car."  But Tiggy was with us through three kids, adventures in Germany and England, our first home, and our transition back to America.  She was a consistent part of our ever-changing world.  And so we mourn.  Tiggy, we miss you.  Long may you ride.

Saying Goodbye

Death is both inescapable and devastating.  It shouldn't surprise any of us, yet even an expected passing leaves those who remain staggering.  Ultimately, it points us to an important truth- that things are not the way they are supposed to be- that the created order has been horribly distorted.  But on to today's post: how to live with what time we have.

A few weeks ago, we said goodbye to my wife's grandmother.  At 91 and in failing health, her passing was expected and even a blessing (she was in much pain).  Still, it's difficult for those who remain, and one reason why was how she lived.

There are many qualities that define a person- hobbies, talents, personality, vocation, appearance, and intelligence among them.  But the one quality that ultimately defines so much of our behavior is whether we're focused on others or ourselves.  And "g-mom" focused on others.  She managed her resources well, making life better for her family through her generosity.  She accepted each new stage of life with grace and a good attitude.  I knew her only in the latter stages; it's not easy moving to a retirement home, giving up the car, and dealing with diminishing independence and increasing frailty. Many handle these things poorly, making life difficult for everyone around them- yet she never did.  She didn't bemoan her station, complain, or become self-absorbed. 'Self' was rarely on her mind.  She lived responsibly and served those around her.  As her abilities diminished, she kept doing what she could for other people.  Same great attitude, same focus on others.  She was a joy to be around for this reason, and a great example to all.

Two years ago, another family member passed.  Unfortunately, his case was the opposite.  Self-absorbed in his retirement years, he increasingly isolated himself until he declined seeing even his immediate family in his final hours.  Ultimately, we lost him years before he actually passed, and he missed an opportunity to use his last season of life to serve.  In so doing he hurt himself and others.

As I reflect on these things, the ultimate lesson is "serve others."  It's not about me- even in retirement!!- and may I remember the words of the Lord:

But Jesus called them to him and said, “You know that the rulers of the Gentiles lord it over them, and their great ones exercise authority over them. It shall not be so among you. But whoever would be great among you must be your servant, and whoever would be first among you must be your slave, even as the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many.” - Matthew 20:25-28

Thanks for serving others, g-mom.  May we do the same.

A Curious Engagement

image from here

Twelve years ago today, she said yes.  Then the pope died.  Read on for more.

On April 2, 2005, my girlfriend and I were visiting friends and family at our alma mater, Penn State.  The trip was special- it was always nice to see the place we had called home as recently as two years prior, but this time, I also planned to propose!

The plan was simple:
1. take a morning stroll through downtown
2. stop in the comic book store to pick up a new Star Wars Miniatures release
3. walk by the gazebo on west campus where we had often hung out
4. deliver an eloquent and beautiful message, finishing with ring presentation
5. welcome into my arms an ecstatic and breathless fiancee
6. enjoy an afternoon collectively lost in a romantic fog
7. meet family for dinner to enjoy a chorus of congratulations and ring adoration

Aside: why comic book store, you say?  Being quite excited, I felt a way to mask it was to talk up the new Miniatures release, and make her think my awkward behavior was due entirely to anticipation of that.  <she saw through it, of course>

My plans were dashed early on by rain.  Steps 1 & 2 happened without incident, but when we walked by the gazebo, she refused to go in.  It was raining and the gazebo was surrounded by wet grass . . . I understood.  But I pressed the matter; several attempts to get inside were rebuffed, so we kept walking.  "No big deal," I thought.  "I'll do it somewhere else.  I have plenty of time."

As the day progressed, I sought opportunities to propose.  There were none.  We went to the mall . . . the luggage section of Bon-Ton didn't seem suitable.  We went other places . . . no dice.  I started to get nervous.  We were supposed to be engaged by now, and the ring was burning in my pocket.  Plus, remember step 7?  My family knew I was proposing . . . if they didn't see a ring, they'd assume a negative response, might react poorly, and we'd probably all end up on Jerry Springer.  What was I to do?

I'm not proud of what happened next.  I managed to hide the ring in the glove compartment of my car (Gold 1 . . . long may you ride).  As we pulled into Olive Garden for lunch, I asked her to get something for me from said compartment.  She saw the ring, I stumbled through a proposal, and she said yes.  We strolled into lunch happy.  Then I explained my original plan.  My fiancee quietly reflected at first, but once back in the car . . .

"You should have made me go to the gazebo."  Of course I had tried several times, and noted as such.  Apparently, it wasn't enough.  "I would have gone if you had been persistent."  "I was persistent," I retorted.  The exchange continued in like fashion, with my fiancee claiming I could have convinced her, while I countered that her obstinance would have made that unlikely (to avoid complete discord, I don't think I worded it in quite that way).  We ended with a plan: we drove back to the gazebo and I proposed properly.  All was good . . . or so I thought.

Every woman wants a nice proposal, and I had messed up.  My fiancee, though not angry, was disappointed with my apparent inability to deliver a romantic experience (12 years later, this is still a  problem).  We continued our day as she thought on this.  Thankfully, we then learned that Pope John Paul II had just passed away.  (I was thankful for the distraction, not the event itself.)

That evening, we met my family for dinner, and all appeared well.  Then Sunday came.  The pastor opened his sermon with the following, which I can quote verbatim 12 years later for reasons that will be obvious: "If I had known how many times my proposal story would be told, I would have planned it much better."  Thanks, buddy . . . a day late on that one.

I am a blessed man.  We've been married for almost 12 years, have three wonderful (if belligerent) children, and she's more beautiful and amazing than the day we met (at least one of us is aging well).  But both of us wish we could get that day back- with same outcome, but better delivery.  It's not just what you do, folks . . . it's how you do it.  Delivery matters.  

Daddy-Daughter Dance

On Friday night, I was blessed to experience my first-ever 'daddy-daughter dance' with my 6-year-old, "Penny."  Put on by her brownie troop, I was looking forward to an evening of quality time with my little one.  Undoubtedly, it would be filled with priceless moments as we gazed at each other adoringly, shared quality conversation, and I taught her the basic ballroom dance steps.  The evening would strengthen our bond and guarantee stress-free teen years followed (much later) by her choosing a paradisiacal locale for me to spend my earthly twilight*.  This was going to be an evening to remember.

My dreams were dashed the moment we entered the ballroom**.  A professional DJ was playing upbeat, fast-paced modern dance and hip-hop tunes.  My face turned ashen as I quickly grasped what was to be expected that evening.  I was supposed exhibit suave, funky, and hip dance moves.  If you fail to understand my plight, let me be clear: I have a large amount of Germanic heritage in me.  Ingrained in my genetic code is the mandate to display little (positive) emotion and no 'funkiness' of any kind.  In the motherland, such joyful acts are considered misdemeanors.  My enthusiasm paled as my goal for the evening quickly shifted from 'enjoyment' to 'survival.'

My fears were, initially, somewhat alleviated by the appearance of other dads present.  Not only did the majority look uncomfortable in a suit, some appeared to be work-from-home programmers who had little experience wearing clothing of any kind.  The overall 'frumpiness' of the group, however, amused and distracted me for but a moment.  Then my plight returned to the fore as the DJ started a new song and commanded us to rush the dance floor.  I was thus abandoned to my fate; an undoubtedly ignominious end was forthcoming.

I focused on keeping the beat by swaying in time to the music.  I can't dance, but at least I'd show them I had rhythm, darn it.  I expertly shifted my weight from one foot to the other, at times even lifting my feet a few inches off the floor to show I could be cool and hip. My daughter, thankfully, didn't detect my deficiencies.  She did, however, demand that we get in the very center of the floor and that I spin her around.  I complied, being grateful for an opportunity, however fleeting, to drop all pretenses of dancing ability and focus on her.  But in my haste, I didn't think it all the way through.  As I spun her, the other dads cleared away.  When we stopped, I gasped as I realized that we were not only in the center of the floor, we were now the ONLY people in a 5-foot radius of the center of the floor.  And people were watching.  Oh good.  The evening was progressing nicely.

A few songs later, the DJ made us line up in two parallel lines on either side of the dance floor.  She then asked that we, one couple at a time, dance down the middle of the floor for all to see.  And guess who happened to be first in line?  That's right.  Penny and I got to show our complete lack of ability right in front of everyone.  It was around that moment, when all appeared lost, that I mercifully came to a realization: my buffoonery was not unique.  Nobody else could dance, either.  To the outsider, we all appeared to suffer from mild seizures or medical conditions prohibiting fluid movement.  In fact, the group of mothers in the back serving food were openly delighting in our collective discomfort.  Maybe things wouldn't be so bad after all.  Then, my daughter bolted.

Penny had spotted her friend, "Isabel," and happily scampered off with her.  Isabel's dad and I were in close pursuit, but (I think) we were both secretly relieved to be free of the aforementioned expectations.  We watched them from a few feet away as they did what (I suspect) most young girls do in such atmospheres: exhibit bizarre behavior and giggle constantly.  Just as I relaxed, though, the girls pulled us into the fray.

Isabel asked her dad to slide her between his legs, then pull her out and throw her in the air.  Penny, seeing this, demanded I do the same.  This continued for what felt like hours, the sole respite being her occasional requests to spin her in a circle, before resuming the 'slide and throw' technique.  I was exhausted, caked in sweat, and despairing of life when Penny finally took a break and got some food.  She ate about half of her selected portion, then gave me the remainder to hold until such time as she required the rest.  It was then that I realized my true role for the evening: I was to serve as both a jungle gym and personal servant, but little else.

There's not much left to say.  Things continued in such fashion until Isabel had to leave.  Penny, apparently incapable of going on without her, demanded we do the same; I was delighted to comply.

As we headed into the night, Penny thanked me for the evening.  She liked spinning and sliding, the cookies, and seeing her friends.  Though I didn't warrant a mention in the list of the evening's highlights, as I looked at my beautiful little one I realized something profound: I hope next time is a hike or something.

In all seriousness, my daughter is amazing, and I love spending time with her.  Though the evening didn't go the way I expected- or wanted- it was still time with her.  She'll move out some day, and likely forget all about this particular experience.  But I won't- public embarrassment has a way of sticking in the mind.

*never forget that your children pick your retirement home.  Ignore me at your peril.
**her elementary school's gym.

Priests and Warriors (Nicholas Maclean-Bristol)

As the subtitle states, Priests and Warriors is a history of the Scottish Maclean clan from 1300-1570.  In just 160 pages, the author gleans what he can from the Medieval records and pieces together what we know about this family.

I read this only because my grandmother was a Maclean, and I was interested in learning more about my heritage after visiting the ancestral stomping grounds (predominantly the Isle of Mull in the Highlands, as seen here and here).  Unfortunately, Priests and Warriors doesn't fit the bill.  Though (to his credit) the author does a good job scouring and referencing the Medieval sources, the presentation is poor and account hard to follow.  I'll summarize: the Macleans had several 'branches,' most of which were located throughout the Inner Hebrides.  They served the Lords of the Isles and fought amongst themselves (and with other clans) for land and status, just like everyone else in the Middle Ages.

A good deal of contextual history is left out, and this reader didn't have the Scottish historical understanding to fill in the gaps.  Much of the account goes over land records, tracing which faction of the clan held which areas in the Inner Hebrides at what time.  Good to have for reference; bad if you want a compelling read.  A few stories of interesting personalities and events make the work more bearable, but overall, this is one to avoid (or keep as reference, if family history is your thing).

Rating: C

London

London, looking west from the top of St. Paul's

What began well ended with me carrying my daughter's vomit through the city . . . but more on that later.  Today's post recaps our recent trip to London.  Though we've lived in the UK for 2.5 years, this was our first trip to London since residing here.  We saw the town in 2006, before kids, and hit the highlights sufficiently then.  Seven years later, we returned with my mom, and had the following ambitious trip goals:
1) don't get mugged
2) find a way to get the kids to sleep through the night
3) don't lose the children (accidentally)
4) see something

Let's see how this turned out then.

Day 1

We opted to take the train down to London.  Our main fear on any public transportation is that the children will take the opportunity to riot and/or practice shrieking.  Thankfully, this time the ride was uneventful.  Arriving in the evening, we had time for only one thing;  we opted for Madame Tussauds Wax Museum.  Yes, it's expensive, touristy, and a bit cheesy, but it was actually rather nice to see.  My 'take-away' from it was that some famous people are rather short.

Patrick Stewart . . . he looks good even in wax.

 What came after the wax was highly anticipated- dinner at Chipotle.  London has a few of them, and we enjoyed our meal there.  Not quite the same as the ones in the States, but close enough. We couldn't help but notice that Chipotle was on Baker Street- the street where the fictional Sherlock Holmes lived.  We found the museum set up to celebrate him, as expected, at 221B Baker Street.  What we didn't expect was that 221B was wedged between 231 and 235 Baker Street.  Whatever.

Holmes!

After dinner, we went immediately to our hotel.  Nearby was a Sainsbury's Local- a small hybrid grocery/convenience store that was to prove invaluable (you'll see why in a moment).  The hotel was nice enough (meaning it was clean and had a working bathroom), and my daughter was overjoyed- the separate bedroom had bunk beds.  She slept on the top and, more importantly, slept through the night, as did our son, who slept in a travel crib at the foot of our bed.  Things were looking good indeed.

Day 2

The main unknowns in traveling are the weather and the kids.  One or the other can affect your plans in a big way.  With both in surprisingly good shape, we set off at 9am.  Our first destination was St. Paul's Cathedral.  I missed this last time- it was quite nice, though I spent most of the time shushing the children, who, sensing the peaceful atmosphere, elected to have a race in the south transept and squeal in delight at inopportune moments.

St. Paul's

St. Paul's

After St. Paul's, I hit Starbucks for my standard hot chocolate.  I mention this only because there are (apparently) 57,000 Starbucks in London, all within a square mile.  Seriously; there were times where they were located every 50-100 yards.  But I digress.

From St. Paul's, we walked to the Tower of London.  From the Tower, one gets a nice view of the Tower Bridge (often mistaken for the London Bridge).

The Tower Bridge

The Tower of London is great, and the kids got a chance to run around a bit.  You can spend hours there; I think we spent two.  The Tower is fun because it's generally associated with death, imprisonment, and torture; topics we all enjoy.

The White Tower

The Beauchamp Tower, where prisoners were kept (and inscribed impressive graffiti on the walls)

Henry VIII and his wives, most of whom he killed . . . and now you can hang them all on your Christmas tree

 My son, Luke, is obsessed with buttons at the moment- so you can imagine his delight when they had a voting kiosk of sorts in the Bloody Chamber (where the Princes in the Tower were kept), where you get to vote on who you thought killed the little dudes.  Sadly, my son, not understanding the concept of one vote only, voted about 150 times.  Thankfully, he gave each option about 50 tries, so I think the results were relatively unaffected.

Casting his vote . . . over and over and over

It was in the Tower that my daughter had to 'go potty.'  I took her, assuming adequate facilities were available.  The first men's room I tried had urinals only; the next was closed for repair.  Sensing emergency and doing what only experienced parents can do without blushing, I marched immediately into the women's room and assisted her in there.  It happens, people.  Deal with it.

After the Tower, the kids hit their threshold, so we headed back to rest in the hotel.  My daughter was done for the moment, but my son seemed in keen spirits, so he and I, along with my mom, went out again to Westminster Abbey.  I like the abbey, mainly because it has lots of famous dead people.  I particularly enjoyed the tombs of monarchs, and poet's corner.  It takes about 45 minutes to stroll around satisfactorily.  On the way home, we passed Big Ben and Parliament- great buildings.  Though we had the Oyster card for underground travel, we opted to walk- easily done, and more scenic.

Big Ben & Parliament

Westminster Abbey (well, part of it)

Double-Decker with Big B in the background

Dinner that day was Pizza Express.  This is where the fun started.  Both kids started nuclear meltdowns, and after a few outbursts, I started to get the starer.  Perhaps you parents know what I mean- that one guy who keeps looking at your table, murdering you with his eyes, every time the kids act up.  We do our best to control the kids, but modern child protection laws mean our hands are tied in certain respects.  In the end, we all left, the kids screaming, after half-eaten meals.  We were sad, but didn't realize something worse was coming.

Day 3

"Mommy, I don't feel well."  My daughter's first words of the day summarized it nicely.  She puked.  And then again.  And then again.  etc. etc. etc.  My wife wasn't well off either, experiencing a bout of the "Hershey Squirts," as those of use raised in PA say.  (As an aside, I think we went through 6 rolls of toilet paper that day.  SIX ROLLS).  Not knowing quite what to do, we eventually agreed that Beth and Natalie would remain at the hotel while three of us (me, Luke, and my mom, Verna) went out on the town, checking back frequently. 

It's at this point that I must digress briefly to highlight again the importance of the nearby Sainsbury's Local.  Not only was it our standard breakfast stop (croissants . . .mmmm), it was also our go-to for the emergency we were about to encounter.  Toilet paper.  Water.  Bread.  Anything else the situation demanded.  I ended up going there so frequently- sometimes, more than once an hour- that I was concerned that the staff was considering a restraining order.  Good thing it was open 24 hours . . . there are advantages to city life. 

Back to relevance.* After the sick ones were as comfortable as they were going to get, those remaining went out.  First up was Churchill War Rooms.  A great stop; highly recommend for history/WWII buffs.  We took 45 minutes to get through it all.  We were moving at a good clip, though, as my son was ornery, attempting to set off a fire extinguisher, and at one point trying to open up a water access point for a fire hose.  Fun times.

Is that middle guy supposed to be W?

Poster seen near the exit.  I couldn't agree more.

After the War Rooms, we strolled through St. James' Park, where my son expressed his delight at the nearby Pelicans by pointing to them and saying "buh," then laughing, about 100 times.  We walked on to Buckingham Palace, where we got to see guards in comical hats marching around. 

The birds that so enamored my son

Buckingham Palace

Man in funny hat

On the walk home, we passed through the South Bank Christmas Market.  For the unfamiliar, Christmas markets are where vendors come to set up stalls and sell kitsch, or 'junk', at obscene prices.  The food, however, is extremely good, and more than makes up for the rest of it. 

The food is good . . . the merchandise, not so much

Now it's dinner time.  What do we do?  The girls were still "poorly," as the Brits say, and the prior night's experience had further eroded our confidence.  We ended up spreading out a towel on our hotel floor, and sat on it eating shredded cheese, bread, and bananas- staples in my son's eyes.  Interestingly, we enjoyed this meal much more than we expected.  Maybe there's something to keeping it simple.

That night, Natalie had settled to the point where we thought she'd be okay, so Beth and I went out to see the Lion King musical (my review).   We found out the next morning that a nearby theatre had its roof collapse the very same night.  That was far from our mind, though, for as we returned to the room, we checked in on our daughter.  She (thankfully) had been fine while we were out, but the minute we got back, she started barfing again.  I did my best to avoid drawing conclusions from that.

Day 4

And now we reach the pinnacle of the journey.  Natalie's illness lasted throughout the night, and in the wee hours, her vomit took on a bright green hue.  Calling the NHS help line, we got a doctor's appointment for her at 7:20am at St. Pancras.  We were staying near Waterloo Train Station, so that meant a 40 minute journey up to the northern part of the city.  We decided that I should take her to the appointment; we had to check out of our hotel that morning, so my wife would pack up in the meantime.  

As I escorted my daughter through the hotel lobby, she kvetched again.  Now, I was prepared- I had a barf bag on me- and I caught everything.  Here's where the problem begins: I didn't have another bag.  I didn't want to risk throwing my only one away, so that left me one choice: I would carry her now-used barf bag with me to the doctor.  Not ideal, but what do you do?  So off we set, daddy carrying Natalie's vomit.

I was extremely worried about those on the underground getting an unexpected (and unwelcome) dose of Nat, but mercifully, my fears were unfounded- she didn't hurl the entire journey there.  When we arrived at King's Cross underground station, I noted that we were already late for our appointment.  Hailing the nearest taxi, I asked for directions to St. Pancras' hospital.  In keeping with my belief that Brits don't want to make money, the cabbie refused to take us, saying "it's just down the way."  Very well; I'd walk.

I found out that "just down the way" meant 0.7 miles.  Now, that's easy to do on my own.  But my daughter was tired, and so I carried all 45 lbs of her in one hand; her barf in the other.  That made 0.7 miles seem very long indeed.  We arrived about 20 minutes late, but they saw us anyway.

The doctor was a kindly Indian man with a wonderful bedside manner and horrible breath.  After doing some routine checks, he indicated that a urine sample was necessary.  That's fine; we can do this.  I took Nat to the bathroom and placed the small collection jar under her.  This was when my lack of knowledge of certain female functions became apparent.  I had assumed, never making a point of learning this for certain, that women peed "down" into the toilet.  Imagine my surprise when Nat peed "out" at me, hitting my hand instead of the jar.  I reacted appropriately, moving the jar to catch a sufficient amount.  Still, now I was covered in pee, while my daughter's barf stayed loyally by my side.  This day was getting better and better.

Returning to the doctor, a few quick tests indicated that my little girl would be fine; she had a 24-hour bug is all.  The doctor visit seemed to have a psychosomatic effect on her, if nothing else; afterwards, she felt fine, and her spirits noticeably improved.  The doctor told me that she should be carried, for a time, to avoid undue burden on her; so back I trekked to the station, with her in one arm, and barf in the other.

An uneventful journey back to the hotel, followed by some juice, made Natalie feel much better, and so off we went to "Winter Wonderland" in Hyde Park; our last stop before our journey home.  It was a Christmas market on steroids, featuring some of the biggest "temporary" rides I'd ever seen, and more kitsch than you could handle.  It was also extremely expensive.  Rides cost £2-3 each . . . yowza.  Still, it was a nice way to end the day.  Nat continued to recover, to the point that she even rode some of the more bland rides.  Amazing what a Winter Wonderland can do.

One entrance

How long did this take to set up, I wonder?

mmm. . . Viking blood

the festive atmosphere

After the Wonderland, it was time to take the train home.  We thought we were out of the woods . . . but not quite.

Our train home was precisely planned; we were to arrive back in our home town at 5pm- dinner time for the kiddos.  On the train from London to Leeds, though, we couldn't help but notice we were going rather slowly.  The train was losing power, and so we had to switch at Doncaster.  We ended up losing over an hour.  That's not bad for adults, but for kids, it can (and did) get ugly.  We had to eat fast food garbage in Leeds, and then continued on home with screaming children.  We must be so popular.  At last, we arrived safe, but exhausted.

When I walked in the door, I asked Natalie what she enjoyed the most.  Do you know what she said?  The bunk beds.  Just goes to show you- doesn't take much to impress the little ones.  I think we can all learn something from that.  There is joy in small things . . . though I'd rather not pay exorbitant London room rates to experience them. 

In conclusion, we enjoyed our time in London, though it wasn't without stress.  Interestingly, do you know what I enjoyed most?  Taking my daughter (and her barf) to the doctor.  Yes, it was gross, and hard, and horrible.  But she's my little girl, and I'll do anything in my power to protect, help, and heal her.  Parenting isn't always fun, but it's in those hard times that you really get what love is.  I love you, little one . . . but don't ever pee on me again.

*Well, sort of.

Family Photos

not my family . . . image from here

Hello!  My name is Natalie- I'm John Mark's daughter, and I'll be a guest poster today on my daddy's blog.  He should probably be supervising me, but he mumbled something about 'not being able to take it anymore' and stormed off- I think he's in the guest room playing with star wars legos and choking back sobs.

Today we tried to do family pictures.  For all you kids out there, know that family photos is a prime opportunity to sow discord.  See, mommy and daddy go to great lengths to make everyone look pretty and dress well and smile nicely and look like a well-rested, got-it-together bunch; in other words, they're out to deceive.  We kids know the truth- most families are discordant, rag-tag groups consisting of self-centered individuals just trying to survive without injuring the others in a way that would cause permanent scars or invite legal proceedings.  Once I discovered this planned deception, I did all I could to ensure our photo shoot reflected the more accurate reality- and I present my techniques below for your enjoyment and use.

Ensuring Family Photos Reflect Reality
Before you leave the house for pictures, here's what I recommend:
- know the objective.  My overall objective is to reflect reality; that means I have the following goals:
       - mommy & daddy should look haggard and exasperated
       - I should be angry, defiant, whining, disinterested in the mandated task, and/or openly weeping
       - my baby brother should be exhausted, worried, dirty, and a menace to himself and others
- start early.  While mommy is trying to dress you for the shoot, have a meltdown, preferably over something trivial or irrational.  Example: "mommy I don't like bananas why does Luke have toes I don't want to wear clothes today WAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH"
- disrupt siblings.  It's not enough to be out of sorts on your own; get your siblings into it.  My preferred MO is to punch my baby brother in the face and/or try to flush him down the toilet.  Something that would leave noticeable marks on the face is desired, ensuring the photos accurately reflect the typical situation in the household.  Do this right before leaving the house for the photo outing- the closer to departure the better.
- delay departure.  Refuse to get dressed.  Spill ketchup on yourself.  Put nutella in your hair.  Stop inexplicably on the steps, preferably when your parents are right behind you and carrying something heavy.  There are a number of ways to make this happen.  You'll be forced out the door eventually, but not before making sure your first goal is accomplished.  Once at the photo shoot,
- refuse to cooperate.  Once everyone's in position, storm off.  Refuse to sit on your parent's lap.  Start crying- make sure those eyes stay red throughout the shoot.  If outdoors, get your outfit dirty immediately, in a high visibility spot.  Pout.  Put your hands in your mouth.  Make funny faces or appear forlorn.  Look away from the camera.  Instigate your siblings to encourage acts of madness or downright cruelty.
- give hope.  You'll know once your parents reach a certain threshold.  Once you sense total parental frustration approaching, appear to reconsider.  Imply that you're considering obedience.  Appear to mull bribes in your mind.  The idea is to give your parents hope- and them plunge them back into a despair deeper than they could ever realize.
- share the load.  Endure until a sibling, tired from the event, breaks down himself.  At that point, improve your behavior slightly, giving yourself temporary preferred child status, going back to the previous point.  Once the sibling is back to normal, recommence cooperation refusal.

If you follow these basic steps, I guarantee your family photos will result in an accurate portrayal of the standard household situation.  Good night- and good luck!

Gimme Gimme

Among the many reasons children are blessings are the lessons they teach us.  We, the experienced, should know better, but sometimes it takes the insanity of the young to show us our follies.  Today, as I gave my children a bath, my son Luke gave me just such a valuable life lesson.  As he sat in the water, he spied a rubber ducky- and grabbed it.  He saw another, and took that in his other hand.  He then laid eyes on a toy turtle, and managed to pick that up by wedging it between the two ducks in his hands.  He then sat there for the rest of the bath, doing absolutely nothing other than trying to maintain his hold on what he had, and greedily try to grasp more toys floating in the water.  I couldn't believe it- he was missing out on any sort of enjoyment due to his greed- his insatiable desire for more.  While I chewed on that in my mind, I couldn't help but be convicted of the many ways I'm guilty of just the same thing.

Anyone who follows this blog* knows that I think about materialism in its different forms rather frequently.  That's mainly because I struggle with it so much.  Not just the physical stuff, but the experiences, too- the traveling, the local events, the opportunities life has to offer- it's so easy for me to get caught up in it.  And,  in the last few months, I've become increasingly convinced of just how wrong, yet pervasive, it is.

Our culture is a "collecting" one.  Books, movies, electronics, games, toys, food, and other material things roll into our households all the time.  Some fight back- and perhaps you've seen the "collect memories, not things" slogans circulating on the Internet- but even then, when you dwell on that, you see how our tendency to horde has seeped into such good intentions.  Collect memories- get as many as you can.  See as many places as you can.  Hang out with as many people.  Do as much as you can.  Do, do, do.  Gimme, gimme, gimme.  We are (or at least I am) those people sitting in the tub, hording the toys and enjoying none of them. 

After watching my son and his ridiculous act, I was humbled.  I looked at the games that I own- and realized that I play only 10 of the (probably 30) that we own.  I looked at my books- and see works that have sat on the shelf for 10+ years, while I've purchased others (I own 90 that I haven't yet read).  I looked at my movies, and see dozens that I own because "they were on sale" and "it's nice to watch them now and then," which means I'll see them probably once a decade- and I noticed that I own about 20 that I haven't ever watched, planning to "get around to it one of these days."  Then I looked at my kids' toys- I won't bother elaborating on that mess.  I turned from stuff to experiences, and I saw the same.  We've done so much that it's not uncommon to see a picture and have to think about what country it was taken in.  I think on what we've done in the last two months and hardly remember, because our time is so jam-packed with activities that our existence becomes one of running from one event to the next, with no time to process.  The bottom line is, I'm the one with the rubber duckies.  Holding them, hording them, stressed out because "there's so much to do," while doing nothing for fear of dropping one.  In short, I'm nuts- God be merciful, and strengthen me to live life as I ought.  I can't have (or do) it all, so help me have (and do) what matters.

*if that's true of anyone in this world