The week before Christmas

Emigration Diary: The Week Before Christmas

Posted December 19, 2012 by Jenny Foxe in Ramp Specials

There’s not much time left till Christmas. This will be our first living in the United States of America. I bought a special ornament for our tree to commemorate it, a cute little penguin sitting on a ball of wool with 2012 emblazoned across his own woolly jumper. We chose a tree, brought it home and my kids excitedly helped me decorate it. I had brought a small box of the more special Christmas ornaments with us from Ireland and we hung these among the new ones, cute and sparkly reminders of all our Christmases past.
It has been a tough and confusing weekend for a lot of people in America. I was in work on Friday when I first started to see reports of the horrific incident in Newtown. Living on the North Shore of Long Island, Connecticut is directly across the water. We have clientele who often sail across on their boats for day trips, others who work on Long Island but live in Connecticut. It’s commuting distance away. It could just as easily have been my children’s school. I had an overwhelming urge to collect them immediately and when I finally could get to them I held them tight and cried.

What happened in Sandy Hook Elementary school is unfathomably horrific and tragic and it has affected people deeply. Many people, me included, are finding that even thinking about those children and their poor parents brings tears to the eyes, every time. People are trying not to think about it or talk about it but it seems it can’t be helped. As parcels arrive that I’ve ordered from Amazon, I wonder have those parents to suffer having toys arrive all this week, toys they ordered to make bright young eyes sparkle with excitement, eyes that will senselessly shine no more.
As President Obama addressed the people of Newport on Sunday, I saw Christmas parties in the restaurant go silent as all watched eagerly, waiting for some words of comfort, looking to their leader to make some sense of it, explain it to them somehow, give it some reason or justification, anything to make them stop feeling as they are. Even those who were vocal in voting against him looked to the President to fix it. Of course, he can’t. He spoke well, from the heart and emotionally and he implied he’d do everything in his power to stop it ever happening again but he can’t undo the tragedy. Nobody can. When he had finished reciting the names of the victims, the diners wiped their tears and continued with their festivities. It seems callous but what else can we do right now? As sad as this makes us, we have to go on. We have to make Christmas happy for those who are left. My children’s school has decided not to have a minute’s silence for the victims of Sandy Hook. They don’t want our small children to spend a whole minute reflecting that this could easily have been them. We can’t have our children fearful for their safety in their schools, at the cinema, or in shopping malls. They have got to go on believing that a bad man will not just turn up one day and shoot everyone; it is up to us adults to figure out how to make that the truth.
Personally, I’ve been forced to look at the question whether I have put my children at a bigger risk of something like this happening to them by moving them to the United States. There have been four mass shootings of innocent people just going about their business since we moved here. I’m not aware of any ever in Ireland.

It’s a shame that we’ll have to teach our children that if someone suddenly appears in their life bearing weapons it may not be someone dressed up for a joke and that they should hide or run or play dead.

I struggled with this for a while but ultimately came to the conclusion that the opportunities outweigh the risks. Ireland isn’t without its own risks. Guns may be illegal but living in West Dublin, gang-related shootings were disturbingly common. My own good friend witnessed a violent murder in the estate next to mine, shortly after we moved away while walking her dog. It’s a shame that we’ll have to teach our children that if someone suddenly appears in their life bearing weapons it may not be someone dressed up for a joke and that they should hide or run or play dead. It’s a shame our children need to be prepared for bad people in the world but I think that’s a worldwide problem and it isn’t really new. I spent many years as a child living with the constant threat of the ‘stranger in a car’. I guess part of being a child is learning to be as prepared as possible for the bad guys in the world and as parents we just have to hope that ours never meet one.
But, there’s not much time left till Christmas and without forgetting those we’ve lost this year, I’m going to do my best to make it a happy one. I’ll take the children to see Santa in Macy’s and we’ll watch the ice skaters in the Rockefeller Center. We’ll eat turkey and too much chocolate and play some silly games. I’m going to do those crafts I’ve been putting off and bake those sugar cookies they’ve been after. I’ll make another attempt at frosting a gingerbread house even after last year’s sticky, messy disaster. Laws and security policies may well change after recent events and I really hope they do but what has changed most for me is that I’ve realized again how lucky I am to have two healthy, lively children and it’s up to me to do the best I can to make their memories of their childhoods as pleasant as possible.
Merry Christmas – or as I’ve learned to say now that I speak American – Happy Holidays.

Advent Adventures

Emigration Diary: Advent Adventures

Posted December 5, 2012 by Jenny Foxe in Ramp Specials

No sooner had we thrown out the leftover turkey from Thanksgiving than we started decorating for Christmas. It’s a good two weeks earlier than I would’ve done in Ireland but we kept it simple. We merely festooned the roof in perfectly tasteful icicle lights and put a couple of glowing reindeer in the garden. Oh…and a Santa and some tin soldiers, perhaps a few candycanes. Nothing ostentatious, I swear. We vetoed the giant blow up Spongebob in a Santa hat requested by the kids. We’ve opened the first few days of our chocolate advent calendars and lit the first of four Sunday candles in our wreath. We’ll leave the tree for a couple of weeks because I don’t want to be in possession of a dried out, pineless twig by Christmas.
I was talked into starting a new Christmas tradition by a co-worker: Elf On The Shelf. Pickle is the name my children gave to the elf that came to live with us. He watches and listens to them all day long and when night comes he flies off to Santa to report what he sees and hears, whether they’ve been naughty or nice, and to convey any Christmas wishes. Every morning they have to search the house to see where he flew back to. He could be on a shelf or a table, propped behind a curtain rail or sitting on a globe, but he’s in a different place every day. Obviously, romanced by the cuteness and being such a sucker for any kind of Christmas magic, I didn’t think this through properly before I introduced it. I have woken a few times already at 3am thinking ‘Agh –the elf’ and if I can’t talk George into it, have to stumble around in the dark looking for a new thrilling place for him to land and spend the next day. The little one in particular loves it though. He’s even given him beautifully coloured pictures and love letters to take with him to Santa in an effort to get in the big man’s good books.

I finally managed to sort us all out with health insurance. Here, it is required by the school that children have a ‘well-being’ check-up at least once a year. They checked everything; blood, urine, spine, eyes, ears, height, weight – the works. I am pleased to report that my children are perfectly healthy and have been ‘cleared for contact sports’. The doctor was more than a little surprised when I answered ‘Er… at 9 months’ to when they had their last check-ups. Preventative medicine is compulsory here. The idea of only going to the doctor when you are sick is unheard of. The insurance companies want to know what they are covering. I’ve been for one too. I got a bit of a scare when she suddenly hooked me up to an EKG machine right then and there. I’d been watching American Horror Story: Asylum the night before and all the stickers and clips all over me terrified me almost as much as the nurse’s tut and frown did. It turns out my heart beats just fine though and I don’t think she actually went near my frontal lobe.
Good job, because I’ll need it. Coming up over the next week I have my New York State driving test, two parent/teacher meetings and finally an interview for a proper job in the city. Exciting times! Perhaps the goal I had of being sorted out by Christmas is a possibility after all. I think I’ll do some whispering to Pickle the Elf myself.

Advent Adventures

Emigration Diary: Advent Adventures

Posted December 5, 2012 by Jenny Foxe in Ramp Specials

No sooner had we thrown out the leftover turkey from Thanksgiving than we started decorating for Christmas. It’s a good two weeks earlier than I would’ve done in Ireland but we kept it simple. We merely festooned the roof in perfectly tasteful icicle lights and put a couple of glowing reindeer in the garden. Oh…and a Santa and some tin soldiers, perhaps a few candycanes. Nothing ostentatious, I swear. We vetoed the giant blow up Spongebob in a Santa hat requested by the kids. We’ve opened the first few days of our chocolate advent calendars and lit the first of four Sunday candles in our wreath. We’ll leave the tree for a couple of weeks because I don’t want to be in possession of a dried out, pineless twig by Christmas.
I was talked into starting a new Christmas tradition by a co-worker: Elf On The Shelf. Pickle is the name my children gave to the elf that came to live with us. He watches and listens to them all day long and when night comes he flies off to Santa to report what he sees and hears, whether they’ve been naughty or nice, and to convey any Christmas wishes. Every morning they have to search the house to see where he flew back to. He could be on a shelf or a table, propped behind a curtain rail or sitting on a globe, but he’s in a different place every day. Obviously, romanced by the cuteness and being such a sucker for any kind of Christmas magic, I didn’t think this through properly before I introduced it. I have woken a few times already at 3am thinking ‘Agh –the elf’ and if I can’t talk George into it, have to stumble around in the dark looking for a new thrilling place for him to land and spend the next day. The little one in particular loves it though. He’s even given him beautifully coloured pictures and love letters to take with him to Santa in an effort to get in the big man’s good books.

I finally managed to sort us all out with health insurance. Here, it is required by the school that children have a ‘well-being’ check-up at least once a year. They checked everything; blood, urine, spine, eyes, ears, height, weight – the works. I am pleased to report that my children are perfectly healthy and have been ‘cleared for contact sports’. The doctor was more than a little surprised when I answered ‘Er… at 9 months’ to when they had their last check-ups. Preventative medicine is compulsory here. The idea of only going to the doctor when you are sick is unheard of. The insurance companies want to know what they are covering. I’ve been for one too. I got a bit of a scare when she suddenly hooked me up to an EKG machine right then and there. I’d been watching American Horror Story: Asylum the night before and all the stickers and clips all over me terrified me almost as much as the nurse’s tut and frown did. It turns out my heart beats just fine though and I don’t think she actually went near my frontal lobe.
Good job, because I’ll need it. Coming up over the next week I have my New York State driving test, two parent/teacher meetings and finally an interview for a proper job in the city. Exciting times! Perhaps the goal I had of being sorted out by Christmas is a possibility after all. I think I’ll do some whispering to Pickle the Elf myself.

Trading Traditions

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Emigration Diary: Trading Traditions

Posted November 21, 2012 by Jenny Foxe in Ramp Specials

We’ve fallen back into the routine of our new normality since the hurricane. We had another storm since my last post, a nor’easter that grounded flights, halted public transport and covered the tri-state area with about 6 inches of snow in the space of a few hours. I almost cried when our power went off again so soon. Thankfully, it came back after only an hour. It took George and my mom hours to get home from work because of delays and cancellations with the trains. Alone with the kids in the cold and dark, I managed to finish cooking a stew on the trusty old camping stove and even light a fire. I felt like Bear Grylls.
The kids had another day off school after being back only one day since Sandy. The schools have already used up all of their snow days and it’s still only November. We tested the kids’ new snow boots and built a pirate snowman. His hat perched on a lump of melting ice became the only evidence of the snowstorm by the following day. The sun came out and we were finally cut a weather break. My five year old declared ‘Yesterday was Winter but now It’s Fall again!’ I certainly never expected extreme weather conditions, sustained power loss and gas rationing when I moved to New York; to think one of the reasons I wanted to leave Ireland was the weather! Since this week, it is now possible to get gas without lining up for hours or having to check if your registration plate is odd or even to match the date where we are. There is still rationing in Manhattan and some other places. The storm debris from Sandy is slowly being removed from outside people’s houses and charities are out in force collecting food and money for families on the South Shore that have lost their homes and livelihoods.

The majority of people I follow on Twitter are still in Ireland. I watched the preceding arguments and saw the shockingly low turnout for the Children’s Rights referendum and I read the horrific story of Savita Halappanavar and witnessed the resulting outrage and amazingly high turnout for the vigils and protests in her name. Reading tweets makes me feel both very close and very far away. Of course, I have strong opinions on both of these issues. If I was there I would probably have been extremely vocal on them, but I am not, I am here, and I wonder if I have given up the right to have more than a passing interest in them. I did not rush back to Ireland to use my vote and I did not take part in any vigil demanding belated legislation, nor do I plan to for any issues in the future. Irish law doesn’t directly affect me anymore. It leaves me feeling a little bit lost. We are still Irish citizens, but my family is now permanently resident in a land which has its own children’s and healthcare laws which vary widely from state to state. I am not even fully familiar with the laws in my own county yet. No doubt bugbears will catch up with me in time and I’ll end up passionately standing up for something or other. I did sign a petition to keep the local post office open. I guess that’s a start.
Later this week is our first Thanksgiving. I’m looking forward embracing this new tradition. It’s like Christmas without the presents; an early taste of turkey and cranberry sauce. Thanksgiving is multi-denominational and observed by all. We have a lot to be thankful for on this first celebration. Not least that we’ve survived over four months here now and we’re still pretty sure we did the right thing. We wouldn’t have been happy with a smooth ride, would we? I’m thankful that the kids have settled so well into their new lives and I’m thankful to have had the support of my family and to have been made to feel so welcome. I know we’ve had ups and downs but there’s something to be said for taking the time to focus on the good things even if it is only once a year. I’m also excited to embrace another great American tradition this week – Black Friday. Well – I was never going to let a shopping day pass me by and we do need a new TV.  So, in the spirit of the week, happy Thanksgiving Day from all of us in the US whether you celebrate it or not and thank you all for still reading.

Powerless

Emigration Diary: Powerless

Posted November 7, 2012 by Jenny Foxe in Ramp Specials

I was all set with a post describing how our Hallowe’en celebrations were going last week. I was aware of the impending Frankenstorm being whipped up at sea and the damage it had done in the Caribbean but having been here through quite a few media-frenzied storm watches that came to not much more than a bit of wind and rain, I wasn’t too concerned.
When we learned it was highly likely that there would be power outages on Long Island, we did thankfully take some precautions. We filled the cars up with gas and got in some camping gas, non-perishable food and plenty of batteries and flashlights. Our water is pumped from a well and requires power to run so we filled the baths up with water, just in case. We had notification that school was to be closed on Monday and Tuesday.
At about 2pm the curiosity got the better of us and we headed to a nearby beach to look at the waves. We were expecting Sandy to hit at about 8pm. We are on the North Shore of Long Island so this was not as dangerous as it sounds. The only real risk we were taking was that we could be hit by a falling tree. The storm surge on this side of the island wasn’t expected until about 10pm. In the village they had boarded up windows and lined their doorways with sandbags. It was a full moon so the tide was to be very high and the village regularly suffers from flash flooding anyway. What we saw from the beach was scary. At low tide, the waves were already about 8 feet high, the water was crashing against houses in Asharoken. At Crab Meadow beach there was so much sand being blasted by the wind that a second or two outside the car was the most efficient exfoliation treatment I’ve ever experienced. The playground fence waved in the air like a ribbon. A little subdued by the power Mother Nature was exhibiting, we went home to safety.

It was George’s birthday and as he is not a lover of birthday cake I had been soaking raisins in tea to make a brack. I mixed up the rest of the ingredients and preheated the oven. The power flickered. I sighed and reset the oven. It flickered again. The kids came upstairs, indignant that there was something wrong with the TV. The cable was resetting when it went off again. This time it stayed off for a few minutes. We looked around for candles. The power came back for another minute then went off and stayed off. I wrapped up the brack mixture and figured I could bake it the next day. Meanwhile, it was getting pretty windy.
We stepped outside to try to charge phones in the car. The sky flickered an eerie blue colour. It wasn’t quite like lightning; we wondered if it was power lines or substations. High above us the oak and chestnut trees swayed like daffodils in the breeze. Where we stood was sheltered. I heard an ominous creak from a neighbour’s tree and we went back inside. George set up the camping stove in the garage and steamed some mussels I’d had in the freezer and made some fried garlic bread. We had thought to get wine and beer in. With the open fire lit, good food and the weather staying outside it was actually a rather pleasant evening.
On Tuesday, I went out to get some last minute supplies for the Hallowe’en party I was to host in the 2nd Grade classroom. Still without power, I hadn’t seen or heard any news. This is America though, right? Of course Party City was going to be open. It was the day before Hallowe’en, their busiest day of the year. All the traffic lights were out. One of the scariest things I’ve ever done was to turn left onto a dual carriageway with no traffic lights. On the radio it said to treat broken traffic lights like a four way stop sign. I seemed to be the only one doing this.
Party City was closed. So was nearly everywhere else. I walked into a grocery store that was lit by one light, the frozen aisles taped off and the lone teller adding up bills with a calculator. I bought some Hallowe’en candy and activity books for the kids. The extent of the damage began to become clear to me as I passed hundreds of uprooted trees, lying across electricity cables or resting on people’s roofs. We were lucky, our garden was just ankle-deep in leaves and twigs. We raked up 20 bags. George cut down a few broken branches and dead trees. All around the buzzing of chainsaws could be heard.

We heard that the village still had power and hadn’t suffered too much damage. The water had apparently come up and gone back down, flooding only as much as it ever had. Restaurants were open and very busy. After some barbecued salmon, we walked down with all the phones and chargers. We were welcomed by notices like this:

Wednesday was Hallowe’en. Northport village usually does what they call Safe Hallowe’en where the local shops and small businesses give out candy to costumed kids in broad daylight. I had thought the fact that it wasn’t considered safe for children to go trick or treating in their own neighbourhood kind of sad but this year it was absolutely not safe. Downed wires dangled everywhere. I walked down with Thor and Captain Hook and they collected quite a bit of booty. George took them around the immediate neighbourhood afterwards and they got even more.
As the week ended, the temperature started to drop. We got warnings of snow. Shops sold out of batteries. Gas stations sold out of gas. We lined up for ages to get tables in restaurants. Boiling water on the camping stove to wash dishes or ourselves became tedious. Constantly filling the cistern from the bathwater with a bucket was a pain. Desperately trying to conserve phone charge but still searching Twitter for information and updates was stressful. I had a constant feeling of living in the dark.
There were some highlights of course. George began putting granite rocks in the fire which we would wrap in a towel to warm our bed. I grew quite fond of my pet rock. We ate extremely well, lots of restaurant food and barbecues. The restaurant I work in was so busy I got extra shifts and lots of tips. As I stacked firewood with my kids I realised people rent logcabins to pay for these experiences.
Watching the news today, now that we’ve finally got our power back, I realise how lucky we were. We sustained no damage or injuries and we had the facilities to stay warm and well fed. We may have been 148 hours without power or running water but we always had somewhere safe and dry to live. It was an inconvenience not a disaster.
It’s not completely over yet. School remains closed for another few days as there are no safe routes for school buses. Queues for gas still extend for miles. Outside every home there are bags of leaves and chopped branches as people attempt to clean up and return to normality. Slowly, public transport is beginning to run to schedule and people are returning to work. I see that for thousands of people not very far away that this is not yet the case. Some people’s houses are ruined, some people’s livelihoods, some lost family and friends. Many remain in shelters requiring food and blankets. Snow is still forecast and thousands are still without heat. It will take a lot more time and help for some to recover. I never would have thought this kind of thing could happen in New York, the city that never sleeps. It was brought to a complete standstill for almost a week. Sandy was a stark reminder of how vulnerable we really are and I never again will take a hot shower for granted.

After The Honeymoon

Originally written for Ramp.ie as part of the Emigration Diary series

They say after about three months the honeymoon phase of culture shock ends and the negotiation phase begins. This is apparently when the differences between the old and new cultures become irritating and annoying and many people experience frustration and anxiety while yearning for the familiarity of their old society. Some people withdraw into themselves, some become reliant on others from their own culture, some adopt a hostile, superior attitude and others become suspicious of the cleanliness or safety of their host environment. Thanks, Wikipedia, for reminding me what predictable nutters we all are.

The best thing, it seems, about this negotiation phase or process is that it ends. It’s the make-it-there-or-make-a-legger-for-it period. It lasts about another three months until the adjustment phase begins or, in other words, we get used to the differences and accept them. Hmm… in just under two weeks we will have been here exactly three months. We are four people who have a tendency to react very differently to stimuli. It sounds like this ride may be about to get bumpier.

Still in the Honeymoon period, I guess, George and I took a childfree stroll around NYC last week. We started with Sunday brunch at an outside table on Union Square; mimosas and eggs Benedict, beer and steak and eggs. Delicious. Then we walked down The High Line, a disused elevated freight railway line above Manhattan’s West Side that has been turned into a spectacular public park. This brought us to the Meatpacking District where a rather cool Urban Space market was set up. After a thorough perusal, we took the subway back uptown to Central Park. It was International Peace day as it turned out and we stopped and watched some gospel singers on the bandstand for a while. At Bethesda Fountain, we were amused by no less than six wedding parties posing among the tourists, their photographers desperately trying to capture a scene of newly wedded bliss while the brides threw sidelong comparison glances at each other’s dresses. Afterwards we found a French patisserie where we stopped for tea and cake. All in all, it was a lovely day and it was really good for me to get off the island and spend some time mooching about in the city.

Our life is far from that glamorous on a daily basis. George is working long hours during the week and I work a few shifts in a restaurant at the weekend. There’s not a lot of time or money for wandering about enjoying the sights at the moment and at times we both get irritable. The kids both seem very happy though. They are enjoying school and the afterschool program they are in. At first, I thought it was too long a day for them but I soon realized that they have both made good friends there and spend the couple of hours running about outside playing soccer and tag, followed by homework and quieter indoor games. The few days they have had off they were complaining that they were bored and bugging me to invite their friends around for a playdate. Yes, they use that word.

I think, at the moment, it is not the differences between our old life and our new life that we are finding frustrating but the similarities. The humdrum of making lunches, cooking dinners, loading the dishwasher and doing laundry was not what I imagined when I envisaged our move to New York. I don’t think George imagined himself working very long hours for not enough money either. The big difference here, and it’s the one I’m clinging on to, is that it feels transient. It doesn’t feel like this is it. Already, the hard work is beginning to be rewarded. Opportunities are arising. It feels like upward mobility is not only a possibility but a probability. It’s still very early days in the grand scheme of things. We just have to negotiate the next three months.

Moo-ving In

It was Cow Harbor Day on Sunday. This is a traditional annual festival held in Northport, where we live now, which was once known as Great Cow Harbor because cows used to graze in fields by the waterfront. Thousands of people filled the sunny, waterfront village for a parade and a funfair, loads of live music, antique cars, impressive motorbikes and the local restaurants had grills and hot dog stands out on the sidewalk to feed the crowds.

 I love the place names here on Long Island. We’ve got the Jericho Turnpike which is lined with strip malls where you can buy absolutely anything. My favorite beach is in Sunken Meadow State Park. Our local IKEA is in Hicksville. We’re a few train stops from Amityville and I do most of my clothes shopping in Walt Whitman Mall, on the Walt Whitman Road, near the birthplace of the poet. We often take a stroll on the beach at Little Neck Bay, which borders Great Neck, the backdrop for F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby. We’re also five minutes down the road from the Vanderbilt Museum which houses the rather obscure collections of William K Vanderbilt II in his mansion on his former estate, Eagle’s Nest. It’s interesting and fun getting to know the local history. I guess that’s one of the advantages about moving somewhere new – no matter where you go.

 My kids have started school and seem to be settling in well. My second grader is already using terms like ‘pop quiz’ (nothing to do with music) and ‘Show and Tell’. Football has very quickly become ‘soccer’. My Kindergartner goes in everyday with his ‘tote bag’ and ‘erases’ things when he makes a mistake. It is certainly not taking them long to pick up the lingo. I needn’t have worried about them fitting in. They seem to be doing just fine. They both go to afterschool club which they really seem to enjoy and have made loads of new friends. They’ve been off part of this week for Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. I was surprised, to be honest, that schools in New York were off for Jewish holidays, but there you go.

 In the meantime, George commutes into the city to work. Although I don’t envy him the 70 minute train journey each way every day, he does seem to be meeting some glamorous people and visiting some even more glamorous places. He came home with some expensive men’s product last week. Someone had given it to him as a tip for installing blinds in her apartment. Is that the etiquette? I’d love to see the face of a UPC technician in Dublin if someone offered them male moisturizer for fixing their broadband. I think I’ll stick with handing over an extra couple of bucks for now. See? I’ve got the lingo going on too!

 There are a couple of things I am finding it hard to get used to though. Turning right on a red light makes me feel downright rebellious every single time, but I’m beeped at ferociously if I don’t. I can live with the guy in the gas station filling my car for me while I sit there. I’m not really comfortable with cooking here yet. Chicken breasts seem outrageously large and there are sneaky artificial colorings and flavorings in quite a lot of products. There is quite a selection of healthier goods available. It’s just a case of me getting used to what’s good and what’s not and figuring out the best places to buy stuff. The choice is certainly available. It’s sometimes overwhelming. I’ve been working my way through my American cookbook for all the things I wanted to make before but couldn’t easily find the ingredients in Ireland. It always seems to be the case that if one child likes something the other doesn’t but that was the same in Ireland. No doubt we’ll fall into some kind of meal routine soon, even if it means each child only gets fed every second day. So we really live here now. It’s starting to feel like we’re more involved in society, not merely vacationing observers. We’ve certainly been made to feel very welcome. I wonder how long it’ll be before we start to consider ourselves Irish-American? I don’t think it will take the children long at all, probably the adults a little longer. Maybe next year, we’ll even take part in the Cow Harbor Day parade ourselves.

Are You Ready Boots?

Originally written for Ramp.ie as part of the Emigration Diary series

September is rolling in. I’ve always thought of September as the beginning of the new year. Maybe it’s because it’s my birth month, maybe because of the years spent in school, university and back at school as a teacher but it seems to me that autumn is a far better time to start something new than deep in the middle of winter. It’s a great time to buy new boots and break them in before the going gets icy. I’ve got some already. I bought them in an off-season sale in July. Having put nearly all my other boots in a donation bin in Ireland, somehow I doubt they’ll be the only boots I buy this year.

Here in New York, the weather is still summery. I’m writing this sitting on the deck wearing shorts and sandals. Not at all boot weather yet – it’s 27° – but there are a few tell-tale signs of fall. The tops of some trees have turned red and yellow and there are a couple of leaves scattered around me. The summer vacationers have all gone home now. The kids start school this week. I guess they’ll be needing new boots soon.

We’ve had a little tour of the school and met the principal. It is her first year in the school so my kids won’t be the only newbies. I’ve already been talked into attending my first PTA meeting. Although we have the teachers’ names, we haven’t met them yet. My youngest is starting big school for the first time and he is more than a little excited. I’m quite nervous for my eldest going into 2nd grade. He doesn’t even want me to drive him on the first day. He’ll be getting on a bus with a load of strange kids and will have to figure out the dos and don’ts by himself. Do stand for the Pledge of Allegiance. Don’t ask your teacher for a rubber. I’m sure he’ll be fine though. He’s still young enough that it shouldn’t be too difficult for him to fit in.

In other news, I got myself a job. Not quite the glamourous city position I fancy myself in, I’ll be a hostess in a local restaurant. Still, the hours suit me and the money’s alright and it seems like a nice, friendly place to work. The food is really good too. I can continue writing and rewriting my resume and presumably I’ll pick up something more stressful in time. I’m happy enough to stay local at the moment. You never know, my children may decide they need me after all.

So the summer’s drawing to a close and I guess that means we’ve lasted here a season. It’s had its ups and downs, adjustments and shocks. We by no means walked off the plane and into an American Dream. We’ve discovered that we’re going to have to work hard and make certain sacrifices to get to where we want to be but we do still seem to have a good chance of getting there. I never really felt that I had that chance in Ireland. No matter how hard I tried, doors seemed to slam in my face. I know it’s still early days but I haven’t felt as shut out of anything here. I also have a much greater choice of new boots. All that’s left to do now is start walking.

The Big Question

Originally written for ramp.ie as part of the Emigration Diary series

 Everything is bigger here. The cars, the shopping malls, the cooker, the fridge, even the milk cartons all seem enormous. The boxes of toys and clothes I posted over that seemed overwhelmingly huge when they filled my front room in Ireland barely even got in the way in the hall here. Everything is bigger, but is it better?
We went to a sprinkler park this week. The kids got to wear their swim suits and a generous helping of factor 30 and play in a playground made up entirely of water hoses and sprinklers triggered randomly by giant red buttons. There was the usual playground equipment too but it was so scalding hot from the sun that it was practially redundant. Initially, my kids were hesitant to join in this strange game with these strange children but fate had gifted me with a ping pong ball in my handbag and the quest of balancing a ball on a water shoot was just enough to break down shyness and integrate them fully with their peers. Loads of squealing, watery fun was had. It’s a fabulous amenity that my seven year old commented would be practically useless in Ireland.

 Other than the weather, my day-to-day life hasn’t changed a huge amount yet. I’m still loading and unloading the dishwasher daily and churning out lunches and dinners to a constant chorus of ‘I’m hungry!’ I’ve been applying for jobs but haven’t found anything suitable yet. In fact, it’s been three weeks and I haven’t even left Long Island. I still have a lot to organize. We both have to sit driving tests and I’ve yet to find suitable health insurance and childcare. I’ve enrolled the kids in the local school from September and there is much excitement that they’ll be collected from outside the house in a big yellow school bus, just like in the movies.

 We joined the local library the other day. In addition to stocking our bookshelves, we signed up for some free family workshops during the month. I figured it might be a good way for the kids to meet other children in the area. I might even work up the guts to go to a mommy coffee morning soon and maybe make some new friends myself. It’s funny how I expect my children just to join in with strangers and integrate when I find the prospect of doing something similar so daunting.

We see a lot less of George now. He’s commuting an hour each way to the city so he’s gone early and gets home late, barely in time to say goodnight to the kids. He does seem to be enjoying the work though and I can’t help feeling a little jealous when I see his photos of city skyscrapers while I’m still stuck in suburbia. True, it is a hotter, sunnier suburbia with a beautiful swimming pool in the garden so I can’t really complain. It’s also really nice to have my family around. It’s good to not have to load the kids into the car every time I need something from the grocery store. I guess I just thought things would change more dramatically for me. Patience is not my strong point.

George does get weekends off, thankfully, and we spent last Sunday in the garden. It was 35°C. He repaired some of the decking that hadn’t survived the winter and cut back some of the trees. My mother cleaned and oiled the patio furniture and I took the giant pressure washer and cleaned some of the paving around the pool. The kids built themselves a camp out of the off cut branches. Afterwards, we all went for a refreshing swim and then had a delicious barbecue. It was a really pleasant day and we didn’t have to go anywhere. I got to thinking; everything is bigger here because there’s so much more space to fill. And if there’s one thing my kids and I appreciate it is space. Here they have the space to run around, I have the space to think and most importantly, we all have so much more space to grow. So, with my fingers crossed that I don’t expand so much as to fill the capacious driver’s seat, we’ll continue our journey onwards. Because, despite all the adjustments and upheaval and the anti-climaxes, I still believe, in the long run, for us, it is better.

Into The Blue

Emigration Diary: Into The Blue

Posted October 17, 2012 by Jenny Foxe in Ramp Specials

I hadn’t worked in a restaurant for 15 years until a few weeks ago. I don’t think I would have even considered doing it again in Ireland. I’m not sure why that is. Career snobbishness I guess. I’d forgotten that it can actually be fun. The place I’m in is a busy little waterfront restaurant and bar. It has ten tables. They have outside tables in the summer but they’ve put them away now that the weather has turned cooler. I’m hostessing and bussing which involves seating guests, taking drink orders, clearing tables and a whole lot of smiling. I’ve worked a few double shifts this weekend which meant I was on my feet for twelve hours straight. It was pretty tiring, but I quite enjoyed it.
The same guests tend to come in to eat again and again and I’m getting to know the regulars. I’ve had customers identify my face as an Irish one before I’ve even opened my mouth to speak and everybody has been exceptionally welcoming after they’ve discovered that I’ve just moved here with my family. Some have even asked for my or George’s resume to see if any of their contacts would be able to help us out with more permanent jobs. I do get a bit of ribbing from the kitchen staff about my accent – ‘Table Wun, you say?’ – but the most common comment made is ‘Your accent is soooo cute’. I can’t help wondering do new immigrants to Ireland get such a welcoming, enthusiastic reception? Somehow I doubt it.
We drove out to Montauk Point last weekend and climbed to the top of the lighthouse there. Built in 1796, it was the first lighthouse in New York State. It’s also at the most easterly point of the state so as close to Ireland as we could get. It was a long, two hour drive that took us through the opulent Hamptons, past pumpkin picking farms and antique markets until the surrounding land on our little GPS map narrowed to just one road through Montauk State Park, surrounded by sea. I’m a big fan of the Atlantic Ocean and found it a truly magnificent place. I noticed, even as we drove there, that it appeared that there was more sky above and around us than I’d ever seen before. It was possibly an illusion because there are no mountains to gauge distance by, but it seemed like the blue sky just went on forever. It gave me a delicious sense of space and freedom.
Somebody in work asked me would I go back to Ireland if things didn’t work out for us here. She was confused as to why Americans love Ireland so much but why Irish people constantly seem to leave it. I told her a little bit about the difference between visiting Ireland and the reality of living there lately and tried to explain why I had wanted to leave so badly. I told her that the only thing I really miss about it is the people. Would I go back? Maybe, possibly, someday but  even if New York doesn’t work out for us, there are 49 other states to try here first… and now I even have recent restaurant work experience.

Emigration Diary: First Steps

Originally written for ramp.ie as part of the Emigration Diary series

Well, we got here. After an uneventful flight, we hung around in US immigration for a couple of hours, signed here, fingerprinted there and with a ‘Welcome to the United States’ we were sent out into the heat with two overtired, overexcited children and minus one suitcase.
The first weekend was passed catching up with family, splashing around in the pool, unpacking, organising and figuring out what we have to do to get social security numbers, enrol the kids in school, get phones, driving licenses and set up bank accounts. On Monday morning, I gathered the necessary documents and we found our way to our local social security office just to be told that we would have to be in the country for ten days before we could apply for our numbers which we need to do all of the other things. Oh bureaucracy, must you follow me everywhere?
I came home a little bit discombobulated and automatically picked up the phone when it rang. It took me a while to figure out that the earnest young man on the line talking about preplanning was desperately trying to convince me to buy cemetery plots for myself and my husband. We only just got here! I told him it really wasn’t a good time for me to plan my funeral that morning. He didn’t even let it go there. I think he’s going to call me back after Labour Day. Note to self: screen all calls.

So enforced vacation it is for a little while. The weather has been a bit changeable but the kids are in the pool most days regardless. We even got to the beach one day. George found a list of house maintenance tasks to be getting on with before he starts works next week. I’ve been trying to establish some kind of routine and collecting loyalty store cards. I have four already!

On Tuesday, I took the kids grocery shopping and let them pick out some store cupboard snacks from the unfamiliar brands. This involved driving the giant automatic car on the wrong side of the road and finding my way to the grocery store. Out of force of habit, I took shopping bags with me. I didn’t know it at the time but each bag you reuse gets you a 5c discount on your bill here. Even so, still not many people recycle them and plastic bags are peeled off the roll by the dozen. I felt quite smug as the cashier counted my bags to ring up my discount but pride soon turned to shame when I realised all of the bags my kids were stuffing with non-nutritious food were emblazoned with the label Bottle Bargains and had come from the local liquor store. There goes my good mom image right out the window, and we’re not even here a week.

Applying for jobs here is interesting. It’s not as simple as just emailing off a resume. Each position requires a carefully tailored cover letter and often a lengthy application form as well as a resume. It takes hours. I am delighted that there are so many interesting things to apply for though. Luckily George is set up with something already. He starts this week, while I get on with enrolling the kids in school and finding my way about.

It’s still very early days here and feels more like another holiday in my mom’s house than the beginning of a new life but we’re settling in slowly but surely and as I empty and put away the suitcases it’s starting to become real that this time we’re not going back.

Emigration Diary: Last Nights in Town

Orifinally written for ramp.ie as part of the Emigration Diary series

 

 We’re in the last few days now before the great odyssey and most of our goodbyes have been said. We’ve moved out of our house and are staying with rather bemused but very accommodating relatives in the house where I spent much of my childhood. The kids have constructed an unrestricted Nintendo nest in the boxroom and my husband has set up a round-the-clock online sales studio in the sitting room. It’s really quite fascinating what people will buy and I’m completely gobsmacked by the sheer number of things we possessed. I wasn’t even aware of half of the curios. There is a third skip in the front garden. It waits hungry-mouthed for any junk that is leftover on Thursday.

As George suddenly leapt into action and finally started shedding his load, I moved beyond the packing-repacking panic into a fairly mellow apathy. We are getting on that plane on Friday morning regardless of if we are ready or not. The miserable damp weather we’ve been having is playing no minor contribution to this attitude. I will feel the deliciously sticky New York summer heat on my skin on Friday afternoon if I have to go with nothing but a bikini in my handbag. It would be nice if we could get rid of the car before that though. It’s a teeny bit valuable for the skip and sadly, it won’t fit in my suitcase.

We had a little farewell do with friends last Friday which went on till the wee hours. It was rather romantic after the hugs,vodka and tears, to walk down the brightening, eerily empty Grafton St. accompanied by the dawn chorus and to watch the fast-food wrappers of the night before get carried away by seagulls before they could be swallowed by the street sweeper. These are the sights and sounds I most associate with our courtship many moons ago. We stopped at the end, had a kiss and waved goodbye to our Dublin scene. Then we fell into a taxi.

I found this picture while I was packing and thought it appropriate for this last post before our voyage. It was taken at a funfair in Germany. We were newly engaged and I was five months pregnant with my eldest son. I had been prevented from going on almost every ride by a red circle with a line through a stork. George suggested the photo to cheer me up. We joked that we would confuse our kids with tales of the olden days. It never occurred to me that circumstances may conspire for it to be taken as gospel in future generations.

So, I guess this is it. So long old country. Stay well. I’ll resist adding a certain John Denver track to this and I’ll talk to you all shortly from the other side.

Emigration Diary: Stripped Bare

This post was originally written for ramp.ie as part of the Emigration Diary series.

Our house is slowly, but surely, emptying of stuff.  Strangers knock on the door daily, hand me cash and take something away. All the storage systems, so carefully chosen, are gone, leaving us with baskets and boxes of things all over the floor. The walls are nearly all bare now and emotions are getting exposed along with them. We’ve overstocked a charity shop with pieces of our personalities. Other children are playing on my kids’ swings. My four-year-old keeps a small box of precious things in his bed in case they get given away.  Some things are easy to pass on and I know we won’t miss them; others are much harder.

 

 

 

Sentimentality is a tricky thing. It’s only as I’ve had to let go of some items that I realised what they represented to me.  It was as I photographed my hand blender for sale that I thought of the ambitions I had when I bought it. A new mum and a new wife, I had an image of myself in an apron making smoothies and baking cookies. It was never going to happen. I did make a few decent soups with it over the years but it never did transform me into that perfect stay-at-home-mum, providing daily nutritious meals with a smile. Letting go of this is letting go of an aspiration. Oh well, my kids don’t like smoothies anyway.

 

I’ve had a few little pangs of pain and loss. The objects are mostly gone now and that’s good because so are the shelves that they lived on. I’ve found it harder to let go of certain toys than the boys have. They’ve outgrown them anyway and they happily toss them away but I remember the shiny-eyed joy on their little faces as they unwrapped them. Will the memories of their toddlerhoods fade when I no longer have the toys to trip over?

My husband is struggling more. The realisation that his parents are ageing has hit him and he feels bad that he won’t be here to support them. Unlike me, he hasn’t emigrated before. Nor has he ever lived more than a few miles from his parents and sisters. Although he’s happy to start a new life in America with us, his new family, he’s not really in the mood to celebrate as he feels he’s abandoning the old. I am being reunited with most of mine. I will have more family around me than I have had for years. It was only when I stopped my excited babbling, about parties and schools, new careers and what still has to be done, moved or packed for five minutes and actually listened that it dawned on me he is being much braver than I am by making this move. He is extracting himself from his family, his role as only son, big brother and soon-to-be uncle and immersing himself fully in the eccentricities of mine. It’s easier for me. I was always doing this. I’ve been guilty of living in the future for a few years now. It’s only becoming real to him as the days on the calendar get marked off and I believe he’s hurting like hell.

So, I guess it’s acceptable that he’s a bit grumpy at the moment and it’s all right that I’m left alone to my planning. I suppose it’s okay that he hasn’t thrown out his animal skeleton collection yet and it’s probably understandable that he still hasn’t gone through that box. I know that he will and – even more importantly – I know that he’ll be with me, holding my hand, when we get on that plane. He’s coming with me this time. He’s starting again with our children and me. He’s chosen to let go and build a new life with us and that’s really all that matters to me.

The rest is only stuff.

The Last of The Spice

This article was originally written for Ramp.ie as part of the Emigration Diary series.

I used up the last of my jar of cumin today.

Not a big deal to most, I know, but to me it begs the question of whether I should buy another one or not. We’re leaving this house in less than three weeks and we’re leaving the country altogether in five. Forever. Our little family of four is all signed up to become a permanent resident of the United States and nothing more than a statistic to Ireland. We leave on Friday 13^th July.

Unlike many others, we are not being forced out of our country by the economic downturn. We’re used to being broke. We’ve never had much money here, yet we’ve managed to carve out a happy, relatively comfortable life. We’ve never owned a house but we’ve made homes in the ones we’ve rented. The Celtic Tiger somehow managed to pass us by, but that only meant its death was no loss to us. The fact that after years of trying – getting extra qualifications, setting up a business, working for minimum wage or worse, for nothing –  we are no further up the proverbial success ladder meant that when my number finally came up, twelve years after I applied, and I was summoned to the great round building in Ballsbridge, I ran there as fast as my best stilettos would allow and insisted the three males I’ve accumulated wore shirts. I even ironed them.

Emigrating is not a big deal to me. I’ve done it before. I was young, dumped and jobless, so I signed a two year contract to work in The Gulf in 2000. I wasn’t sure quite which gulf it was until the day before I left but I reduced my life to two suitcases and off I went into the unknown. I had a ball and stayed three years. This time it’s a bit different.

This time I have a husband and kids in tow. My husband has far more family to leave behind than I do. All the glitter of NYC will be dulled for him somewhat. My kids are seven and four. They are right at the beginning of their lives. Some say it’s a great age to move them. I feel like we are possibly influencing the course of their destiny by this move more than we have by any parenting decision we’ve ever made. For the record, we are subscribers to the go-with-the-flow school of parenting. I believe and really hope this rare decisive action we’re taking is for the best.

This time too, I know where I’m going, at least initially. We’re going to my mother’s house. She left for the US in 1992 with her husband and two small children and it was truly a leap into the unknown for them. They have done well. To an extent, us going now is history repeating.

To an extent, we have it easy. To an extent, this is a no-brainer for us. However, no life-changing uprooting comes without its doubts. So, should I buy another jar of cumin before we go or not?

It will happen in Time

The Time magazine cover feauring Jamie Lynne Grumet looking fantastic as she nurses her 3 year old son while he stands on a stool has caused quite a stir. I made the mistake yesterday of reading some of the comment threads. I still nurse my four and a half yr old. This is less a choice I have made than a lack of action taken to change anything but I am confident enough in my lack of action to not take any of the comments personally, despite how outrageously offensive some of them are. I thought I'd address some of the recurring ones.

'That child is too old - it's disgusting'

It is? At what age did it become disgusting then? When my child learned to sit up? When my child got his first shoes? When he learned to speak? When he learned to say 'Please can I have a little bit of milka?' At no day in my child's life has he seemed older to me than he did the day before. There is no question that my independent, articulate,  hip-hop dancing 4yr old is very different to the 8lb 6oz blonde bundle that entered the world in Sept 07 but he has a lot to deal with. He has to cope with being a little brother, going to playschool, not being able to do all the stuff his big brother can, not being allowed to play DS whenever he wants and I'm happy to calm and comfort him and help him through his frustrations. Sometimes, for him, words and cuddles aren't enough. Breastfeeding at his age is certainly not disgusting to me nor him. You should see how his eyes light up and feel how his tense little body relaxes. I've seen plenty of older children with soothers. What makes a plastic gadget designed to fulfill a childs need to suckle more acceptable than the breasts that are biologically designed to meet the same need?

'At that age it's the Mother's needs not the child's'

I no longer need to breastfeed my child. In the early days and months I did. I'd get engorged and physically uncomfortable if I went too long without breastfeeding. That stopped happening two years ago. I no longer get the blissful, cuddly nursing sessions with a child staring lovingly in my eyes. I no longer get to feel him relax in my arms as he literally drops off to sleep. I've almost forgotten what a letdown feels like. It's a supply and demand system and if the demand is only for one minute every few days then there's only enough there to meet that. I get no pleasure from nursing my child now other than the knowledge that I can give him a safe, comfortable feeling when he needs it. He needs it less and less as the weeks go by. Sure, this is bitter sweet for me but I don't want to keep him a baby. I'm happy to watch him grow up and offer him encouragement and support to do that. It wouldn't be possible to keep him small even if I did want to.

'That child should be eating real food'

I would be very surprised if he isn't. My son certainly happily helps himself to family meals, snacks and treats. He has done for years.  He drinks water and the occasional juice. He has a normal, balanced, relatively healthy diet.  What he doesn't need is anything with the label 'supports your child's immune system' because you know what? He gets that support from me.

'That child will be bullied when he's older'

This one very well may be true. He may get bullied because he wears the wrong brand of trainers. He may be bullied because he has the wrong haircut or he may be bullied because he appeared on the cover of Time magazine breastfeeding at the age of three. There's not much we can do about the first two but if by the time he is a teenager it is acceptable and even normal to breastfeed children until they outgrow the need, he will be a lot less likely to be teased about that. With any luck this Time article will inspire many mothers not to do anything about weaning and let it happen by itself as it inevitably will when the child is ready.

Even if this doesn't happen, I doubt it will be something he'll be too embarrased by. Jamie Lynne seems like an articulate, empathic mother who was breastfed herself till she was six. She is not embarrassed by it, why would he be? As she says 'People have to realise this is biologically normal'. The Attachment Parenting philosophy tends to breed very secure, independent, confident children who have no problem standing up for themselves and are willing to talk about issues with their parents. I'd have every confidence that this family will deal very well with that bridge when or if they come to it.

'Nobody wants to see this.'

Yes, they do. I do. I want to see more and more pictures like this. I want to see more pictures of children being breastfed. I want it to become normalised because guess what? It is normal. I struggle with the fact that my children, neither of whom ever had a bottle, still associate bottles with the feeding of an infant. I want every mother to feel comfortable meeting their child's needs in however or whereever they are needed to do so. If you don't want to see it, don't look.

'They shouldn't have picked someone who could be a model.'

Why not? Jamie Lynn looks good. She has breastfed for years and her breasts are still pert. She's slim and healthy looking. She is wearing simple highstreet clothes. She is confident enough to appear on the cover of Time magazine. Sure, we don't all look like her and there shouldn't be pressure on us to do so but she looks like a good ad for breastfeeding to me.

'They should have picked a more natural pose'

They could have. Some of the other pictures within the magazine are nicer, cuddly poses like this one. They chose the one they did because they wanted to startle. They are a publication after all and this picture certainly got a lot of people talking. I asked my son what he thought of the picture. 'Oh I never tried that, standing on a chair with boots drinking your milka' He then tried it on a low table for a second or two and concluded 'They should've lied down on a sofa.' He has previously nursed standing up many times just before he or I walk out the door. I awkwardly leaned over to him. We just never thought of a stool.

'The headline pits mothers against each other.'

I agree. I dislike the headline immensly. Every mother's choices are valid. Again though, the magazine wanted to startle and I'd just hope that the 'mommywars' are so old and tired now that we can be mature enough not to allow a magazine pitch us into yet another henfight while they laugh all the way to the bank.

There were two more negative comments that recurringly came up but I don't want those search terms used to find this blog. Suffice to say, you see more skin and suggestiveness on a Friday night in the city let alone on the cover of any other magazine and what I consider 'abuse' is the neglecting of a child's needs not the meeting of them.

I believe it's a good time to have this discussion, get over it and as a society be more accepting of people's choices in how they parent their children. Nobody is telling anyone they have to breastfeed their children until they naturally wean but let's not try and tell those of us that choose to follow our instinct to do that that we shouldn't.



Note: Much of how I parent my children is based on my instinct. This is something I have had to learn to trust after reading too much misinformation from 'parenting experts' and listening to too much misinformed advice in my early years of parenting. In case you don't think my instinct is to be trusted here's some science to back it up.http://www.kathydettwyler.org/detwean.html

The Temptress

This turned up in an old box of papers. It has no date on it but I remember where I lived when I wrote it which dates it about 1998. I was playing with the more technical aspects of poetry at the time. I guess this was my attempt at a ballad.

The Temptress 

 

His senses awakened as she sat down,

The light entangled in her golden crown,

In her sparkling sapphires, he let himself drown

When she smiled, when she was near.

Lost for words with a world to say,

He felt all other thoughts slip away,

Only one filled his mind that glorious day,

The day that she was here.

His fingers twitched to touch the face

Of the vision beside him shrouded in lace;

And how his heart began to race

When she whispered in his ear.

What she said we will never know

But to his cheeks it brought a rosy glow.

She swung her leg to and fro

As he finished off his beer.

Hand in hand they walked out the door.

I was left staring at the floor

I knew in my heart I'd see him no more

I knew there was something queer.

I've seen her around once or twice.

How can something so evil look so nice?

And for my friend who paid the price

I shed a gentle tear.