"Where Is Our Home Sweet Home?"

Without falling headlong into a racial cliche, I think it's fair to say that OFTEN in India, when you ask for help, people are so keen not to disappoint that they answer (whatever the query) with, "Of course...is possible." If only it were so.

We are currently embroiled in the almost futile attempt to procure a long term residence near the end of the Goan tourist season. All the best places are snapped up in October/November by those keen to use their six month visa's in their entirety. We knew this might be an issue but had naively hoped against hope that a delightful large home might just magic itself into our lives. Not.

After three nights spent here on the beach, our little family of four are threatening to burst out of our one room hotel accommodation. Last night the husband had to spend a second night on Eggie's little mattress on the floor - which though affords the prospect of not being continually kicked and prodded by little hands and feet all night long - is much to small for his 6 foot 1 frame.

Everyone we ask, thinks for a minute or two, then breaks into a grin and announces that they know of some place somewhere.

However, we currently have but two prospects - neither of which is perfect - both having sufficient enough drawbacks as to be equally unappealing.

The first is across the road from the beach (great) and right next door to the kindergarten where we'll be enrolling Dumpie on Monday (super great). However the house is rather small (not great) and is situated next door to the young German kindergarten teacher - who although nice enough - did make it clear she doesn't like noise and within minutes of meeting us, told a rather random tale of having been massively annoyed by noisy neighbours (not so great).

This place does thankfully boast a 'Western' toilet and though compact, is in fairly good condition by local standards, but I can see the potential for going a bit mental in the rather confined quarters.

Our other option is a huge four bedroom residence right next to a primary school - which depending on how you look at it - is either amazing proximity for Egg (who we're thinking of sending there) or potentially annoying as all hell given the penchant over here for learning by rote..usually vocally. It's also rather shabby and a fair way from the beach, and a bit 'jungle-y and hippy' according to the husband (I haven't seen it myself).

So you see we're in a bit of a conundrum. Do the same rules apply here as they do in London? (ie. Location, location, location) OR do we need the space for the boys to run wild, have a dedicated room to trash with their toys, and have ample room for any friends/family who might decide to drop in. (Saying that, neither of us can think of anyone we know who might condescend to live in such squalor with us.

The husband is leaning toward the compact/close to beach option. I can only surmise that he is clever enough to realise that if he's going to bugger off all the time on mad bike rides, beer drinking sessions with visiting mates and solo adventures involving local chai shops and trying to write the next great British novel...then he darn well better make sure his wife is at least near the gorgeous beach where she can at least while away her time chatting to the stall owners, eating her own body weight in fresh fruit, and working on her tan (though if you know me you'll know that thanks to my Egyptian/Austrian heritage I generally always look like I've just come back from a week in the Caribbean...).

All I do know is that this current state of homelessness does not suit our filthy little crew. Dumps has suddenly done a 180 as of yesterday and toilet-trained himself (like I rather suspected he might). During dinner last night he just announced that he wanted me to take him to the toilet, and once there, aside from me having to grasp his little 'winks' between my thumb and forefinger and aim it into the bowl, he did the deed. (I am pleased to report that he is now on solo 'winky' duty - thank goodness- though the wiping down of bum area after a number two still needs to be administered by a learned hand). Nonetheless there are still a few accidents here and there, and the last thing one needs when sequestered inside a room the size of our former family bathroom, is to be aurally poisoned by the stench of souring wee in the hot midday sun.

To confuse matters further, we've just heard from a local woman that the place by the beach should be avoided AT ALL COSTS because the owners next door are loud, always crazy fighting and one of their sons is a bit funny in the head.

That should make them perfect potential neighbours I would have thought...non?

"Home is Where the Hangover Is"

This is our second full day here. Our first was punctuated by an unfortunate altercation between three year old Dumpie and a molly-coddled nine year old boy. Dumps had accidentally thrown sand in this older boys eyes, and some time later his grumpy (bovine-like) mother stomped over and told off the husband and his friend (a mate from London who we bumped into on the beach) for not coming over and making sure her son was okay. I watched the scene unfold as she got angrier and angrier - despite my still-jetlagged husband's sombre and repetitive apologies and his mates effusive ones. She just wouldn't drop it. I finally had to interject (though I hadn't been privy to the crime), "He's only three years old! These things happen..."

(At this point I didn't realise her bloody son was nine years old and bawling like a baby over a bit of sad being chucked on him by....a baby. I suspect my response would have been a little less tempered had I known...)

With such an annoying start, the day had to get better...and it pretty much did. Despite the husband losing his mobile phone immediately upon arrival (unless it's stuffed in a pair of dirty knickers somewhere) and the four of us getting ravaged by mosquito's in the night, the sun is sublime, the food delicious, and the air....oh the air is heavenly. I forgot how lovely it is to breathe sweet sea air.

Jay is chuffed to have bumped into an old London mate, and as such, has fallen back into his usual London ways, transporting his tired family home after dinner last night and then sneaking back out for a few more 'bevvies' while I fended off the advances of two sweaty, cranky little midgets in our cramped mosquito-netted king size bed. Dumps insisted on sleeping ON TOP of me, and Egg awoke with nightmares and had to have a cuddle in the middle of the night.

This morning at first light, I grabbed my ipod and snuck out to the almost deserted beach for a quiet morning run. Wow...beautiful. There was plenty to keep me amused - not least the sight of an anorexic, scantily-clad Russian prostitute type doing a bizarre sort of canter along the beach in a barely there bikini and full make-up. It made me - initially self-conscious in my Adidas shorts and trainers - look positively normal.

I was further entertained by the sight of a sock-and-sandals wearing fellow and his lithe young lady companion beginning the reenactment of a pretty hardcore porn film. With what can only be described as pornographic urgency, just steps away from me they began heavy-petting and panting their way towards something which was headed inevitably towards copulation. Luckily some barking dogs killed the mood and discouraged them from their attempts at al fresco lovemaking. I shudder to think of what the locals would have made of that had things progressed any further. (Cut-off denim shorts are still considered risque here...)

A solo morning swim and a ten minute stint in the hammock later, and I was feeling distinctly chilled. That is, until I crept back into the room to find two starving, chattering monsters and a prone, passed out husband face down on the bed.

You can take the boy out of London...but you can't take the London out of the boy.

"The Yippee's Have Landed"

I wish i could take credit for the term 'Yippee' but I can't. A good friend of ours jokingly referred to the husband and I as potential 'Yippee's' on the weekend at one of our many 'leaving do's' (this one a spontaneous, wine-fuelled last good-bye to a few dear friends)...and the term has stuck. (For those not in the know, a 'Yippee' is one social evolutionary step on from a 'Hippy'. Essentially a "Yuppie" who is pretending to be a 'Hippy'. Hmmm...

This point is made all the more clear now that we're here, surveying the local talent. There is the usual array of Westerners wearing 'bindi's' (the coloured dot women wear on their forehead between their eyes), and dressed in flimsy cotton coloured garb - picked up at the local stall for less than the price of a coffee at home. I hear a load of London accents and see many bikini-clad 'Yummy Mummy' types, marshaling two, three and even four young children down the beach, and frolicking with them in the deliciously warm Arabian Sea before slipping sparkly sarongs back onto their suntanned hips.

There is also the usual parade of freaks and geeks up and down the beach - but you have to look out for them. They can usually be spotted by their odd gait, mumbling happily to themselves and gesturing emphatically to no one in particular. At the airport I met one such loon. About my age, she had the remnant of a sweaty thong hanging out of the top of her jeans, wore a crazily euphoric expression, and invading my personal space in a big way, made as if to initiate a lesbian encounter. I was so exhausted I didn't even have it in me to be amused, but I did note the discomfort of other passengers and wasn't at all surprised to here she was also headed to Goa.

(FYI if I ever properly lose the plot, PLEASE can someone ship me out to India. They take care of the 'Kooks' out here, and in fact appear to accept them as necessary social fodder. People give them food, allow them to sleep where they may, and I wouldn't be in the least surprised if there are some naive European travelers following them blindly across the 'hippy trail' and believing them to be enlightened guru's, worthy of their devotion and foreign travelers cheques....)

Anyway, I digress. Let me catch you up on the past few days:

The flight was....amazing! Yes, Kingfisher Air has my vote. Before the flight even took off, the ultra pretty air stewardesses (no overweight, past-their-prime, grumpy cabin crew like the type favoured by Air Canada) sashayed up and down the aisles, dispensing various little plastic packages with all sorts of treats inside (including decent amenity packages which most airlines have now ceased to provide on account of them trying to transport economy passengers as frugaly and inhumanely as possible, like huge loads of stinking cattle).

True to form, there was one epic throw-up session, and I was the lucky recipient of most of it. Poor Egg lost it as we came into land in Mumbai (Bombay). The hot runway and long flight had proved too much and the little fellow let rip with what felt like 4 pints of Apple Juice in the sick bag I frantically hauled out. One of the pretty stewardesses simply sashayed over and without losing her stride, took the folded top bag and whisked it away out of sight...bish bash bosh.

A short transfer later and we landed down in Goa. Exhausted and swelteringly hot, we couldn't be bothered to negotiate a large vehicle to transport us and our luggage (8 check-in bags and four carry-on's plus about four more little bags we somehow acquired en route...??). So Dumps and I took one mini van and the husband and Egg took the other. An hour and a half later we pulled up to our little bit of paradise on the beach, and shortly found ourselves ensconced in a fairly simply room right on the water.

We're here. For better or worse we've done it. How do we feel? Like shell-shocked but terribly fortunate little 'Yippee's'...

"It's All the Little Things..."

I'm sitting here at my dining room table, glumly surveying the wasteland of 'Forgotten Objects' which litter the dark wood surface. Despite having spent the past three hours trying to attack the mess, I have precious little to show for my zealousness.

Where do all these miniature bits and bobs come from? Why do I have a million and one scraps of newspaper/magazine clippings and will I ever read them? How come we have triple the amount of power cords that we do actual gadgets? Whose homes do the dozen odd sets of keys in our utility drawer open and belong to??!

I've now stopped caring what I look and feel like and am devoting my last few days on this continent to systematically trashing/stashing/packing ALL of our personal possessions. I am subsisting on a diet of super-strength cappuccinos, homemade peanut butter cookies (what can I say?...baking is the only thing that relaxes me these days), and the odd bit of cheese and baguette.

Tonight however I intend to break out the red wine as the Diet Pepsi just ain't cutting it anymore. We are up to six suitcases and all thoughts of traveling 'light' have abandoned us. We shall be as we suspected - no more and no less - a wailing, shouting, vomit-stained traveling circus.

On a positive note however, I shall at least be hair-free as I'm booked in (the morning of the flight...why not live dangerously) to get waxed within an inch of my life.

Perhaps I should have made the appointment for today. It might have jolted my spazzed mind into some sort of panicky packing frenzy. Which would mean I wouldn't still be staring at the utterly useless pile of junk before me in exactly the same manner as I was over an hour ago.

Time for that wine.

A Haiku

Eating licorice

Drowning in paralysis

We are really screwed

-"Moaning Mum"

(composed one week before 'G-Day' - sitting at my dining table...eating licorice...and too panicky to do anything about the hundreds of still as yet unboxed possessions in her field of vision)

"Flash Those Pearly Whites"

I've decided, in a dual effort to rid our home of 'stuff' and have a glorious white smile to flash on the beaches of Goa, to embark on a 14-day treatment of home tooth bleaching. I realise that there are a million other tasks lined up on the sidelines frantically vying for my attention, but no...priorities. Plus, it hasn't escaped my attention that we depart these shores in exactly 14 days and there is something stupidly pleasing about finishing the course on the day we leave.

I call it madness because after only one treatment, my already sensitive teeth are buzzing with pain. Like I need this right now. Moreover, both Egg and the husband were looking at me with a mixture of incomprehension and pity this morning, as they weren't aware I was wearing the yucky tasting gel strips, and hence were a bit puzzled/put off by my incoherent lisping and inability to communicate over breakfast.

Spoke to our estate agent this morning, who confirmed what we had already suspected. The couple who viewed our home on the weekend have decided against our place (how dare they?!) and ergo - the four hours we spent frantically turning this tip into a show home of sorts was a TOTAL.WASTE.OF.TIME. (sigh)

Today, aside from packing up the lovely portraits and family pictures which adorn our dining room wall, I have done sweet little else but frantically order Disney dvds online.

You see, I've decided that since Egg and Dumpie have the uncanny ability to watch the SAME movies over and over, therein lies the answer to our future problems. When boredom hits in India and whilst I have my headphones on and 'Dada' is off cycling round villages with reggae blaring off his portable speakers, the monsters can watch 'Shrek 2' for the fifteenth time and be none the worse off for it.

Never mind the school curriculum...my little men will be educated by the 'school of Disney' (which dictates that the good guy always wins out in the end, the boy always gets the girl, and the evil witch is always defeated....).

With the future well-being of the boy's emotional behavioral expectations sorted, that leaves me with the freedom to get back to sorting out my now horribly sensitive teeth.

Off to buy some sensitive mouth toothpaste (and maybe another dvd)...

"You Stupid Woman!"

After a huge burst of momentum last week, things have pretty much ground to a sickening halt round here. Having packed up our books this week, we discovered that between us, the husband and I own enough tomes to open our very own used book store. They number in the hundreds...and yet, we do not find ourselves in possession of a home with its own library. Go figure.

Poor Dumps has had a bad week. Two injections (he calls them 'pops' in the arm) two days in a row has meant that he's not been in the best of spirits. To compensate he's been helping our local news agent do a booming trade in Kinder chocolate eggs.

Yesterday was his last one, and as I struggled to get him dressed in his puffy little red parka, his face red and furious, he screamed at me, "Go away you stupid woman! Me no want no more 'pop'!"

Good point. Nonetheless a worrying affectation he's recently picked up and one which causes me to break out in hives when uttered in public. It appears he's moved on from former insult of calling us all 'Stinky Boy'...though come to think of it...

Then again after school yesterday little Egg proudly told me how he called his teacher 'Little Miss Greedy' in class after she said she wanted to submit more than one child's artwork for a competition. I almost choked.

On another note, we had our first viewing from the estate agent this week, by a young couple with children who want to rent our place while we're gone. Turns out they want this place so badly because it means they go to the top of the waiting list they've been on for three years(!), for the coveted school across the road. We found this out when the admissions woman rang to ask what the heck was going on as both our children and hers were registered to this same address!

Bloody cheeky, they told her they signed a year lease!

(FYI...This is the same admissions lady who vividly recalls me accepting, then rejecting, then accepting, then rejecting once more, the coveted place at her school two years ago when we couldn't decide where to send Egg. Turns out she remembers me well, and is now completely justified in thinking I'm an unstable psycho mother from hell - and a liar to boot - as I was just in there Friday putting Egg and Dumps on the waiting list and assuring her that we'd be back for September....)

And will we? Who knows...

I guess it all depends on one thing...and one thing only...THE MONSTERS....(and can we find anyone suitable to help with them while we're there so we don't entirely lose the plot and end up with absolutely nothing to show for our sabbatical but shot nerves and a desire to go off to a monastery for a month...on our own).

Must go pack. Pack up my life. Throw some more things out. De-clutter my life...hide from Dumpie who is currently wielding a pair of scissors and cutting neat little round holes in all our expensive cardboard packing boxes...

"Ignorance is Bliss"

I'll tell you what...last week (with four weeks to go until our big 'Drop-Out' to Goa) I was feeling fairly confident about the whole packing up endeavor. Much like a naive bride on her wedding night, daydreaming about a future of romantic dinners, and manifold uses for her brimming lingerie drawer...the reality had yet to sink in.

Now it has.

I have come to the conclusion that in order to get everything we need done (and this isn't even including such luxuries as a full body wax, a much-needed haircut, or shopping for bikini's...)in just three weeks, something is going to have to give.

At the moment that something appears to be my body and the outer fringes of my sanity. (The to-do lists in my head have their very own to-do-lists, which branch off into crazy tangents of such complexity, that to put pen to paper and illustrate the workings of my troubled mind might actually precipitate the encroaching nervous breakdown I sense hovers just out of reach.)

I partially blame our estate agent. A jovial young fellow, he admitted the other day to being a former personal trainer who now runs marathons. When sharing with him my recent enthusiasm with running, he quizzed me on my progress and seemed surprised that I had been thus far unable to break the 30 minute mark.

(Him): "What carbs do you eat before you run?"

(Me): "Carbs??"

(Him): "Well, what do you have before you run?"

(Me): "Nothing...?"

Queue look of disbelief/mild horror/sympathy....

(Him): "Well when you come back, what do you have then?"

(Me): "Um...a cappuccino....?"

It turns out that the reason I run out of steam when I run (and want to die....) is because my body has no fuel and my heart is trying desperately to find energy. Apparently my regime of the past five months has been very, very bad.

So yesterday I decided to try his method, and forced down a bowl of muesli and two chocolate chip cookies before I ran (well he did say carbs)...

Wow. He was right! After the 30 minute mark, and after you stop feeling like you want to die, you get a new lease of life, and if you push yourself you can keep going! Amazing!

So keep going is what I did...for a full 45 minutes! I was so proud of myself and so in awe of my body not having fallen apart on me, that I failed even to get embarrassed when suddenly running right into the husband and the monsters having a bike ride in the park.

Now, 24 hours later I realise that I missed one crucial thing. I forgot to stretch.

Last night after a frantic day spent in the boys room getting rid of approximately one half of their toys and books, I discovered that I could no longer bend over. Then I discovered that walking was becoming quite difficult.

This morning I have similar mobility to someone who has been in a wheelchair for months and is just now learning how to walk all over again.

This is not only humbling, but extremely inconvenient. How am I supposed to carry on being 'Super-Woman' when I have this crippling affliction? Urghhh....

So you see, Ignorance IS Bliss....it truly is.

Just ask the 'Me' of one week ago, who blithely announced that she could pack up this entire home in two days if need be.

Two days?!!

I hold my hands up...I am one deluded, yet no-longer-naive crazy woman suffering from massively restricted mobility.

"Dumpitus Eruptus"

The low point of my week had to be last night, in the kitchen around midnight, cuddling a feverish and very ill Dumpie, whilst being repeatedly puked on in a violent fashion, stifling my own gagging reflex as the hot liquid spread down through my hair, onto my back and splashed onto the floor.

Sorry for the graphic details.

Saying that, this morning, in a frantic rush to throw clothes on and get Egg to school before 9 o'clock (our alarm clock froze this morning at precisely 7:21 am) I again found myself craddling the littl'un - this time in our en suite - whilst being showered in yet more hot baby vomit.

I was wearing my expensive All Saints t-shirt at the time, and it is with great shame that I confess I did the school run with wet sick in my hair. (In retrospect I probably shouldn't have made that public to a fellow 'mum', who looked, understandably, horrified at my confession).

Of course the husband was in Sweden on business, so it was left to me to spend a hideous night in our king size bed with a sweaty, feverish monkey who wouldn't take liquids, spent the night moaning and had me contemplating a nightmarish emergency hospital visit on a few occasions.

And it's true. When a child is sick, all they want is their 'Mama'. Usually that's a good thing. But not so much in this case.

(...Not when you've just spent the past 48 hours with a vomiting little gremlin stapled to your tummy like some sort of mutated inside-out fetus)

"Wind Beneath My Wings (An Ode to my Ma)"

Very rarely do I turn my blog over to the arena of the 'sincere'...to pay homage to someone dear.

I last did that for little Egg's 5th birthday, and today I'd like to do it again.

Today is my Mum's birthday...and a pretty important one to boot (but I won't 'out' her online as every woman deserves to have her manifold years on this planet kept a secret known only to a few).

If I could be there in Canada with her, I would start the day off in the only sensible way: two giant triple shot cappuccinos...hell - I'd make them Caramel Macchiatos'

Then it would be a non-stop smattering of chatter and reminiscing, followed by 'dolling ourselves up' for a lovely wine-soaked leisurely lunch somewhere decadent. Afterwards, some strolling/browsing followed by a fabulous matinee in a near-empty cinema (giant popcorn and icy cold cokes)...

Emerging into the bright fading light of the late afternoon it would then magically be 'cocktail hour' and we'd raise a glass (or a few) to toast the most wonderful and unique person I know....my 'Ma'.

Everyone (decent) adores their mother...but mine is pretty special for reasons above and beyond mere familial affection and gratitude. My Mum is so multi-faceted, and has so many little talents that often go unnoticed or taken for granted.

She can for instance, turn birthday parties into stupendous occasions, by finding a million perfect accoutrements that render the ordinary 'extra-ordinary'. As children, our birthday parties were always the most sought after to get invites to on account of all the ceaseless hard work Mum did for weeks beforehand, making them absolutely perfect in every way. No detail was too small or too insignificant to overlook, and she threw herself into at least four birthdays a year for years and years...never complaining or growing tired of putting on such a show...the next one even better than the last...

Even minor holidays like St. Patrick's Day were not overlooked, and we'd be greeted by green pancakes in the morning (a moderate success), green cookies after school (confusing, but still okay), to other green foodstuffs for dinner (not so great, but good effort anyway!).

In essence, she made our precious growing up years (for the three 'Aunties' and myself) utterly magical, and introduced us from a young age to the joys of literature and poetry and beauty in nature. To this day, the bloom of an early Spring flower can literally bring tears of joy and delight to her eyes (that only a much-coveted dress on half price markdown can for me).

She's a bit of a poet our Ma...always has had a way with words..a true 'wordsmith'. I have boxes of letters and cards from her over the years which I simply can't throw away because the sentiments contained within are not only life affirming and so special, but also her legacy. And some of them contain downright sprinklings of genius :)

She also ceaselessly took millions of photographs through the years - despite our protestations and downright lack of cooperation - chronicling our individual 'stories' visually, so we would know how we came to be the women we are today. She made sure that we each had a personal history we can always reference and treasure...and one day pass on to our own offspring.

But mostly I love her so infinitely much because she's such a gem. I've simply never met anyone quite like her. A contradiction in terms, she is so simple in some regards but so unbelievably complex in others.

She has the ability to trancend the mundane and 'soar with the angels', and she passed this gift onto us...this way of perceiving the world and discovering what lies beneath the everyday fabric of existence.

.

She truly lives life in '3D' (which granted, can be both a blessing and a curse it's true...but still...wouldn't have it any other way).

And I wouldn't have HER any other way. She has given so much of herself, in every capacity, to her four, sometimes (very) undeserving, (often) emotionally lazy offspring.

She has encouraged us to LIVE, to DREAM (and to live our dreams!) and to revel in our uniqueness...she has always believed in us.

In the words of Bette Midler's 'The Rose', our beloved Mum has been 'The wind beneath our wings'...and a source of surprising power and inspiration which we all still very much depend upon today.

(Only now, as a mother myself, do I appreciate what a brilliant mom she is. It's bloody hard work.)

So Happy 'WHATEVER' Birthday Mum...I just want you to know that you are simply...THE BEST.

Full stop.

I'll end things here with a little tune I composed for my 'Ma' a few years ago. It's a bit 'rough', but it's real...

Just click on my picture to the right and it will take you to my MYSPACE page...and to the song 'DREAMER' (for Mum)...