My Free-Range Chicks don't lay eggs

I don't watch the news, but I do pop over to CNN and Digg every once in a while to collect all the important stuff. So, I did hear in early April about a woman (Lenore Skenazy) who let her 9-yr-old son take the subway in NYC. I don't live in NYC. I have been to visit and found it generally to be a swell place. The only disagreeable people I found there were A) the street-side Rolex salesmen, and B) this one waitress in SoHo who looked at me like I was a complete idiot when I asked her how the heck it was 2:30 in the afternoon and they were still serving brunch. Look, I'm from the South, and I'm pretty certain that we invented brunch, and even if we didn't (we didn't), I'm fairly certain that a meal whose name is a portmanteau of "breakfast" and "lunch" should probably finish up before noon. I'm just saying.

What was I saying? Oh, yes, NYC. So I can't say that I would send Lena on the subway in NY, but that has a lot to do with Lena being completely unfamiliar with the city. If she had grown up taking the subway (Tube/Underground/Metro) daily, I think (I hope) that I would probably do the same thing that this woman did: set up a very controlled opportunity for my kid to show his mettle. I have done the same sort of thing for the girls, getting them accustomed to being home alone. When Lena was 5, I left her home for about 30 minutes. She was ill and a barf-o-matic, so I taught her my cell-phone number, had her practise dialing it, wrote it all over the house, and then went to pick up her medicine. She called me every 3 minutes while I was away, just tickled that I would answer when she got to make big-girl phone calls. That thrill improved her health vastly more than the medicine I was picking up.

This woman was dubbed America's worst mother, and I have to wonder at what sort of horrible standard of child-rearing that middle-class money affords us. Kids take public transport every day. They come home to empty houses. But are their mothers bad? Do we (and I mean the helicopter parents) think that if they really loved their children, they'd find a way out of the working-class tier they're in? they'd buy them a cell-phone? escort them to their friends' houses after vetting them and all of their immediate neighbors? Do we love our children more if we lock them in a very safe cage and keep them from any hint of danger? Our children have never been safer than they are in this generation. With the exception of the risks from traffic (and we all know my fear of children + traffic), the risks and rates of abduction, assault, and abuse have decreased since I was a child. The only increase has been in the reporting of isolated incidences, giving us a false sense of constant and imminent danger. This is why I don't watch the news. The very nature of my job as a mother is to make my job redundant -- my goal is to push these little chickies out of the nest and watch them fly away.

At this moment, I have no idea where my kids are. Okay, I have some idea. I could narrow it down to a postcode (we have a fairly small area covered by our postcode). Somewhere, Lena is riding her bike, and Livia is running behind trying to smack Lena with a bamboo pole. (This is an eccentricity that cannot be explained in this post). I let my kids climb trees until the tree top bends with their weight so high up. (Livia is famous for falling out of the apple tree three times in one week. The third time, she came in the house quite scratched up after I let her in through the front door. I was curious why she had gone around to the front door since the tree is in the back. She had fallen out of the tree, over the fence, into the neighbor's garden. To get out of their yard, she had to go through their front gate. We had a short moratorium on tree climbing after that.)

But I don't say this to brag. In all actuality, I am acutely aware that I am vastly over-protective of my girls. Here we are in the beautiful English countryside, surrounded by woods, streams, fields, and dozens of footpaths that spider out from our front door, and I will not let my girls wander as I did as a child (it should be noted that my mother was accused of teaching me "Independence through neglect.") I could disappear for the whole day if it were not for chores (which I admittedly shirked whenever possible.) I caught things and killed things. I hammered nails into trees, left the hammer out in the elements, and then tasted the pine sap (note: it may look and be sticky like honey, but it is not yummy) (2nd note: if you are the daughter of a forester, do not under any circumstance ever put a nail into a live tree. To this day, the sight of a treehouse makes me wince at the thought of how now that whole stand of trees will be lost to disease (so went the lecture I received -- and no, not a single one of our trees was lost)) (3rd note to my children: don't touch my tools.) Dana and I found a sleeping bat once, brought it home, named it, and then shrieked in horror when it awoke and showed how really uncute bats are. She and I built forts, swam in the pond, fished, mummified grubs (with the leftover raspberry candies that no one would eat out of Whitman's Sampler combined with perfumed filched from my mother -- no, I can't explain the logic behind the candy in the mummification process). Every 5th of July, I dug out any leftover powder from the bottle-rockets with plans to build a bomb (at this very moment, the NSA just flagged my blog). I whittled sticks into, er, um, sharper sticks. I also managed to whittle my thumb once. Only once. I fell on some lumber (upon which I was tight-rope walking), cut my leg on a very rusty nail, and probably needed a tetanus shot and some stitches, but when I went in to tell my parents, they were engaged in an afternoon "nap," so I risked lockjaw and gangrene rather than the embarrassment of admitting that I could hear them, and patched myself up with bandaids. My point? I had a great, wild childhood of solitude and craziness. I still love walking alone in the woods, taking things apart, and starting wacky projects with Dana that we never finish. And I now get excited about snow days, frog spawn, and bird eggs; bike races, books, and boys -- all the wonder and discovery that comes from being Free Range Children (or in my case, their mother).

Do you have a coat? Are you wearing trousers?

We had a few goals for this term break (all 24 days of it) and by the last week, we had accomplished next to none of them. The weather kept interfering, or our schedules, or any such excuse. One of my goals to which the girls had agreed was to go hiking here in England. So, Snowy Sunday we declared that unless it was actually pouring rain, we were going to get into the car and drive a few hours to some acceptable hiking location and not come back until we were sufficiently sore, tired, and blistered.

Monday we awoke to another dusting of snow, but the weather girl promised that the sun was going to come out for a mostly dry and cold day. I found a very lovely but long hike, and though the girls have never been on a hike of more than about 5 miles, when they saw that there were caves, they agreed. We scrambled to get everything together, including maps and food. Lena came down dressed in yoga pants, and I sent her back upstairs to change, specifically into something warmer. Those were almost my exact words for why she needed to change. Morning was wasting, and the girls with the food all packed went to wait in the car for me. The snow-covered car. I finally came out, dusted off the car, tossed the two layers of my winter jackets on the seat next to me, and we were off.

An hour up the road, 30 miles from the trail head, I pulled off of the Motorway to refuel and as I crested the hill of the exit, I could see ominous dark clouds in the direction we were heading. I commented over my shoulder excitedly that we might get to hike in the snow. There was a deep silence from the backseat until Livia spoke up, "I don't even have a sweater!" Turns out that the girls dressed and packed only exactly what I had mentioned to them. Lena had changed into warm pants, and they each had their thin waterproof jackets because I had told them to get them, but neither girl, while sitting for 5 minutes in the sub-freezing car under a blanket of snow had thought to bring a jacket. The flurries started while I pumped gas ($8.40 per gallon, so no whinging from you softy Americans), and I pondered if there was any way to salvage this trip. The service station sold beach chairs, 2-man tents, hard hats, and car-powered coolers, but no sweatshirts for the girls to wear under their rainjackets.
So we drove home.

Wednesday, we tried again. This time we packed 18 layers deep and somehow made it to Milldale, where we parked the car to begin our hike around Dovedale.
Dovedale is a lovely dale in the Peak District that is very popular with the tourists as it is a fairly flat 3 miles through the valley, so it tends to get crowded with yahoos. After passing a solitary twitcher, we did begin to encounter others along the trail.
Soon, the caves that convinced L&L to undertake this death march came into view.


As I said, this is a popular trail, and it isn't really a hike if it follows a flat, well-beaten path, so when we arrived at Ilam Rock, we turned onto the real trail -- that went straight up out of the valley (the path is the hardly noticeable dog-path that seems to climb up the side of Ilam Rock).

Halfway up we stopped for air and a bite of lunch when the trail cut sideways for about 10 yards. We were surrounded by gobs of wild garlic (all the green in the photo), and from our desperate hand-over-hand climb, we stunk in a sufficiently vampire-safe way.
We emerged from the trees, now at the top of the chasm which is Dovedale, having just climbed 115 meters (377 feet). We were tired, but happy for the view.

The top of the hills makes for great pasture, and we made the most of this being the lambing season by harassing as many sweet little lambs as possible.
Finally we arrived at the highest point, Bunster Hill, which is an ancient reef knoll -- a giant pile of calcium deposits back from the day when all of this was under water (which I'm guessing was last summer). We could see for miles and miles in every direction -- were it not for the fantastic haze. It felt like any minute we would just fall off the earth. L&L wanted to roll down and only abstained from fear of sheep poo, not because they would have rolled into the next county.

We hiked along the ridge line, heading toward the very prominent Thorpe Cloud (which as true blue Americans we had renamed Volcano Hill). Lena wanted to climb it too (though it is slightly shorter than Bunster Hill). But we hit a small snag in this plan as we hit the edge of this ridge...





Yep, it was almost straight down. An 85° decline seemed a little daunting to me, the voice of reason. But we still had to get down. Those tiny little people down there were walking on our route back to the car (on the far right, the nearly invisible dots are the people). We decided to take a longer, switchback route down, and before we set out, Livia stripped off her jacket, packed it into her bag, and then set the bag down -- from where it promptly started rolling down this hill. She went to chase after it (since of course she had also packed some of her non-outdoorsy treasures), and being the great mother that I am, I went sliding down the scree after it, finally stopping when I couldn't compete with gravity unless I surrendered to the gravity completely. The bag came to a rest on a little ledge, and I was able to retrieve it. Woohoo! Wouldn't want to lose any of those sparkly pencils Livia brought!
Near the bottom, we met up with lamp #2. A few weeks ago, I was in the car with a British lady, and there was a field near her home with many frolicking lambs, each with an individual number spray-painted on the side. I joked about picking out Sunday Dinner by number, and she replied that actually the lambs are owned and raised by the village butcher and last year she had #17, and he was delicious. Seriously.
There came a point in the trail when to proceed, we had to cross these stepping stones. Unfortunately, the first 4 were under fast-flowing water. Remember how I'm such a great mother? Yep, I carried each of my lead-bottomed children to the dry stones as they cried and wiggled in fear of falling in. Then, on the other side, they wanted to do it all over again. Of course. We saw a natural arch. Actually, this occurred at about Mile 6, so I wasn't paying attention and nearly walked right past it. Kudos to Livia for being observant enough to see giant limestone formations 30 yards from the trail.
When we were nearly back, I made the girls take a picture of me, just to prove that maybe I had been there. Between the two of them, they took about 10 pictures of which only this one was even slightly passable. To be fair, the camera kept doing funky things with the exposure for me too, so I can't put all the blame on the girls.

We had some really interesting conversations. #1: Lena is as deaf as a post. We had numerous times when I'd say something and she'd hear something totally different. Lena, "What are you eating?" Me,"Cough drop." Lena, "Pasta?" Then later I said we could go into the caves. She heard, "...go into the pigs." This became a running joke as there were about 7-8 caves during the course of the trip. #2: Lena refers to Snickers Bars as "Sneekers." This took a little getting used to. #3: We encountered a man fly-fishing. Livia promptly replied, "Why would anyone want to catch flies?"

We had a stunning time despite the lack of blue skies and the boot-full of stubbed toes from a rapid descent. The hike was a total of 7 miles. When we were near the end, I asked, "So, where do you want to go tomorrow?" Lena was raring to conquer something even bigger while Livia declared that she never wants to do this ever again. For the rest of her life.

Weekend Weather

After a week of hit or miss rain with a bit of sun on Friday, last Saturday came up beautiful and clear, so we prepared ourselves to go to Stowe Gardens nearby our home. We had about 20 minutes of sun there before fiercely dark clouds came rolling in, bringing with them a sharp drop in temperature.

Livia can't resist the opportunity to pull a face.
This abrupt weather change was simply setting the stage for what we'd wake up to the next morning.


There was enough snow for long enough that the girls had a good play in it. We finished off the afternoon by making homemade chicken noodle soup with homemade noodles. I adore fresh egg noodles made with our fresh eggs.

The Map Game

We played the Map Game today.

First Lena asked, "If you could live anywhere in the world, where would it be?"

Livia: Mexico

Lena: Fiji

Ariel: Thailand

Me: Over there (pointing out the window)



Next, "Where would you send your enemies?"

Livia: Libya

Me: Antarctica

Ariel: Somalia

Lena: Bangladesh ... just before the rainy season ... in 1998



Finally, "If you could own a country, which one and why?"

Livia: Mexico because it's big and filled with people who I could make do things for me, but I would let them be free.

Lena: Hungary, because it makes me feel hungry (and later) because it makes me think of Atilla

Me: Italy or New Zealand

Ariel: China because China owns the U.S.



Geography and social studies at their finest.

Spring into Easter

Easter came early this year, but it still fell after the Vernal Equinox, so this was technically spring. Easter also marked our best snow of the year. Which had nearly all melted by the time it was time for church and photos.

Lena escaped at full speed after pictures were taken.

Who's your daddy?

In the last post, it was very obvious that Lena is my child. This past week, I took a series of photos of the girls, and there was no denying to whom Livia belonged.

What do you think?

In other news, we had a surreal experience on the last day of school. Ariel and I went to pick up Lena, and the headmaster came up to inform us that our daughter had won the Singing Cup (it itself does not sing). I had to ask, "Which daughter?" It turns out that Lena won the award this term for her amazing singing. I'm still a little bewildered by this. She must get extra credit for enthusiasm. At the end of the summer term we have to give it back, but Lena's name and the year will be permenantly engraved on the base with the previous winners. The cup was first awarded in 1958 to S.J. Drabble. I have all of his albums. Even the Christmas album.

In church each Sunday, we get comments about the girls' singing. You see, we sit near the front, therefore facing very few people; and yet, the whole of the congregation can hear them -- for every hymn. It's worse on days like today when they happen to be sitting next to each other as then they try to out-sing each other. By the end, they are louder than the whole assembly and the piano. The Bishop is visibly laughing at the front, and I'm blushing furiously. It's best (worst) during the Sacrament Hymn, as we prepare to take the Sacrament of the Lord's Supper. This is always a solemn and contemplative hymn, and yet it is belted out by the dueling mezzo-sopranos. Our only consolation is that by the end, at their loudest, the words have taken a triumphant turn, and their volume connotes the choirs of angels. Legions of angels.

But this one looks a little devilish. Just like her Daddy.

Glorious Titian Mane

The title of this post comes from a comment from another mother at the school pick-up the other day. Since my hair is more auburn than red, I demurred that "titian" was a little inaccurate. But I'll take "Glorious" any day. Pictured is a Sunday shot that I made Ariel take when my hair worked out perfectly with no combing or further primping. I then promptly cut it.

In England, red-heads are called "Gingers" and there is actually a great deal of discrimination against Gingers in this country. I am also not really a ginger, but our chicken of the same name is.


Every Friday, Lena's class has Assembly. It's a lot like show-and-tell, but it's taken to the next level. It's a presentation with 10 minutes set aside for the assigned child, and last term when Lena's turn came up, she tried to convince me that it was okay to bring in a live animal for her Assembly -- the Thursday night before. This time, we had lots of notice, and I was able to talk to her teacher about the logistics. I brought the three girls (2 human and 1 avian) to school and sat in the back of the class as Lena made her presentation. It's nice to see the kids at school. The little hellions that have come over for sleepovers turn out to be well-mannered and pleasant people. The daughter that bounces off the walls and makes up crazy stories so ridiculous that she can't tell them for laughing so hard turns out to be focused and well-prepared. She stood confidently at the front holding Ginger securely but gently while she taught her classmates about the joys of having hens. She resisted the goofy questions, called on only the people who were raising their hands (even to the point of ignoring unruly friends), and generally proved that she knew her stuff. I was (and still am) terribly proud of her. My only regret is that I got so caught up in watching her that I forgot to take a picture.

Finally, despite a mild winter, we've been oppressed by Mother Nature on all sides here. In late February, we had an earthquake, epicentered in Lincolnshire (in the north). In true form, while everyone around us experienced it, we managed to sleep through it. It wasn't long before someone managed to trigger one of my favourite pet peeves: seeing anything catastrophic as a sign of the End of the World. Sure enough, Sunday morning, someone mentioned it and Matthew 24:7 (earthquakes in diverse places), and Ariel and I just had to smile since England has had earthquakes of similar magnitude about once every decade for the last couple of centuries. But the epicenters have been in diverse places around the island, so prophecy should not be discounted quite yet.
Ariel and I had a meeting at his office building on a glorious, sunny day and in the 15 minutes that we were inside, the clouds moved in and dumped a thick layer of sleet all over the place, then cleared away as if nothing had happened. This went on a few more times (stealthy sleeting) and at home, it fell straight down the chimney (where we have no flue) and knocked creosote all over the white carpet that's in our living room. This was actually better than the swallows that are building a nest at the top of the chimney which keep dropping their twigs and crap down into the living room (and once flew straight into the room, much to everyone's surprise).
We've had horrific flooding and winds so fierce that I had to go collect the compost bins which were being thrown against the house. The day was the kind you stay inside for, and I used the time to finish a cloud-study painting I was doing. The funny part is that you can tell how windy the day is because everything in the picture is slanted as if being blown from left to right. There's even more visual weight on the right as if it's all been pushed there by the force of the gales. Otherwise, it's trite, but I enjoyed how much reality influenced my little exercise.
But none of this weather has made me want to flee the country. Last Thursday, I was thankful that I had a friend over when I received a terrible call: our flight is booked for Heathrow to Dulles, July 28th. We're officially going home. Or leaving home. However you want to look at it. Even the cat is booked.