Home sickness - even though I've had longer holidays!

Last week was a wobble of a week. I'll try and explain why, without sounding ungrateful or using too many words, (a regular paranoia that goes alongside writing this blog- along with grammar and spelling fears, I know I overuse the comma, for example,,,,,).

Some of our cargo arrived, the rest is coming by sea in the merry month of (mid) May. I couldn't remember what we'd packed in the UAF (Unaccompanied Air Freight) perhaps my dignity and patience were packed and travelling separately from me, my ability to be succinct in the row behind). The cases arrive during our dog-sitting ventures (see previous post) and when we return to Chateau de Bangkok, 5 cases are standing to attention, ready for inspection. I have a root while James is at work, which is fun at first. I find more kids books, wellies, coat-hangers (was I high when I packed these?) socks, towels, nappies, and more random objects. Encouraged and intrigued by these treasures I move on to case 2. Our parting gift from friends, protected by a pillow with a little round blood stain on (really Natalie?) lies waiting for my emotional reaction shouting 'Surprise!' I see the room full of our friends faces at our parting soirée, how suddenly everyone was in the living room with Prosecco in hand, and I want to hide. I remember I looked at James and said "oh friggin hell, they're gonna make me cry now, can I just go?". The gift, my trigger, is a photo of Abe and Patti's little mates, taken by a close friend. It is framed beautifully and signed by our best pals, with moving messages inscribed. I quickly flap the lid of the case shut, it feels like I'm fleeing from my surprise party. Then I spot a bottle green cardigan hand-knitted by my mum for Patti, uh oh, sinking feeling, wave of grief, water entering eye area, hand up to cover mouth - drown the sob, but it's too late, I'm spotted by Eagle Eye Patti who saunters over, stares up at my face quizzically and starts patting my arm with her tiny soft and sticky toddler fingers, "s'ok mamma". The floodgates open.

When I feel low or sad, or I'm just having a full moon kind of a day, I usually a) phone a friend, b) drive to my folk's, c) booze. None of the above are an option due to time zones, lack of credit, being sole parent while James is in Burma. I decide to go with the emotion and have a day of crying. I handover parental care to youtube and the DVD player. I text James, fearful of burdening him on what is a 'big day' in the world of cultural relations. He responds quickly to tell me I'm amazing and it's all part of the settling in process. It's not enough, the crying continues, I spend the day in a fog of misery, taking hugs from the kids as and when they're offered. Like eager to please cats bringing me tortured birds I receive toy dogs, slobbery kisses and gentle caresses followed by demands to provide sweets and chocolate, 'have you got any crisps, mamma?' I think this 'mamma' thing is a result of my failure to police youtube, and Patti finding Spanish versions of cbeebies shows, 'Makka Pakka adora su uff uff' and other shows. It could be worse, much worse, but internet worries for another day.

I delve into my misery, I prod my emotional ulcers and wait for the pain and the next sob. It's self-indulgent, it's also irritating me but I can't stop. I think of my friends who've lost their mums, the sadness they feel in waves for always, and I feel their heartbreak and cry some more, all the while feeling guilty for sinking further, guilty that my mum's still around, is visiting next month, and although we'll fall out after day 3, how we love each other and have each other to comfort, nag and argue with. When the crying ends I'm spaced out and blotchy.

I get some Skype fixes, Whatsapp exchanges, succinct tweets (not my forte, though I'd love to haiku them), detailed emails, from my (so solid) crew, the people that fuel me, encourage me and help make this decision the right one with their kind words. I'm trying every possible communication process, other than having my own tv show, but give me time...

I don't know if I've experienced 'home sickness' before, I probably did when I went to university but used the same aids as everyone else to numb the sadness. I've felt very sad before, like pit of your stomach sad, from break ups, friendship losses, deaths. It's consuming and the lump sits in my throat like a roast potato I haven't chewed enough, choking. I think the worry that I've removed the kids from their grandparents, their mates, their school/ play group, their people, is my main woe. I have to remind myself all the time that I'm doing this for the kids, and for us as a family, and for the adventures. Home for the kids is where WE are, wherever James and I administer our love in bucket loads, how we reassure them and comfort them. It's worth noting they haven't cried once for missing home, so something must be working, right?

Lumphini Park: What did you do there?

There's a park near where we live, Lumphini Park. It's a good size, 142 acres, and its a welcome rural retreat in this concrete jungle where you buy knock off, there's nothing you can't get. The day we visit the park, I slather the kids in sun cream, prepare the Liberty Bag (contents: water, sunglasses, wipes, hats, small toys and snacks *bribes, sun cream - this is a daily ritual and we usually forget something crucial and pay the meltdown price).

The park is luscious and green and vast, in fact if you google image Lumphini Park you'll see just how green it is. You may also see some 'buff hunks' lifting weights outdoors, a bit of Tai Chi group activity - I'm told you can join in, but I'm definitely airing to the side of hysterical on the zen spectrum. Look further down the photos and wtf!? Giant lizards emerging from the lake and scoffing turtles, all 8ft of them! So you can imagine my anxieties at exploring the park on my own with the kids, no James to protect us/shit it with us, especially considering the only films on our movie channel seem to involve creatures turning on humans, Shark Hunt and Piranha Nights to name but two. Patti is fearless, she can scale a bookshelf and chew on a razor in the time it takes to make a brew, and Abe's really into all creatures great and small (not the tv series about a vet, I doubt it would be fast or sweary enough for my son these days). I have daymares about them both gleefully charging into the open mouth of a terrifying reptile, 'look mummy, it's a real dragon'. Alas, we don't witness any lizards, just the odd jogger ('odd' being the word,  it's 35 degrees FFS people), a couple of prostitues fine-dining from the carts at the roadside, women's bodies with men's voices and feet. It's sweaty, it's hot and humid, there is no breeze.

There are hoses on the back of trucks, circling the park, watering the forestry, it sprays us, it's pleasant at first, then I recall my wise friend's warning: whilst visiting Bangkok 10 years previously, her father accidentally ingested Songkram (see previous post) water during fight time, he lost 4 stone in 2 months through illness, Kampala Bacter. I remember her parents cautioning us from their quaint cottage kitchen. "Close your mouths kids" I bark. We meander through the park, pass a little place of worship, then I spot the familiar bright plastic through the trees, our place of worship. "Park!" Abe is happy to have called the first sighting, he was waivering like a lowly sniper in the thirsty desert, though spotting a luminous yellow wavy slide through some bushes is hardly sniperesque. Thank Buddha for that! We wind down a few paths towards our target zone, the kids red faced even though I'm the one exerting, we park up, they take 2 steps into the play area and the whining starts: "sand in my toes, sand in my toes", "I no like it, I no like it." An Australian woman gives me a head tilt to show her understanding and pity, she offers, "it's hot, hey?" This is parental endurance testing at its finest. I try to channel the endurance skills of Eunace Huthart, the scouse Gladiator circa 1994. I never really liked the show, and we give up and go home.

We return to our temporary home like survivors, a whining, sweaty mess of a journey precedes - up and down high kirbs, besides shit smelling sewers, negotiating the busiest roads, not knowing whether the direction we've taken is the right one. We make it back, we eat Philadelhia sandwiches and rehydrate with chocolate milk. I look at my filthy newly blistered feet, and throw socks into the Liberty Bag.

Dog Sitting

It is day one of our dog sitting escapades. Abe is in his element. He's been asking for a Chihuahua for nigh on 6 months, ever since we saw an article in his Grandparent's newspaper, commenting on the amount of 'handbag dogs' now abandoned and living in Battersea Dog's home. Not the breed I imagine to live there. I picture Pit Bulls and cockney Bulldogs, like Bullseye from Oliver Twist, with their gob irons playing mournful tunes and tattooing each other's faces and paws.

We googled top 10 dogs for kids, seriously contemplating adding another member to our family, and learnt they're not the best for toddlers,so now Abe states maturely, "when I'm a man I'm going to have a Chihuahua." And judging by his determination and staying power with his infatuations, when he's a man, he'll have a Chihuahua. When Abe left Alma Park school, possibly one of the toughest aspects of our Levy life to leave behind, his teachers and classmates made him a farewell book. A colourfully laminated portfolio of Abe's 2 terms: photos of him exploring with his best mates, Nell, Ty, and Omar, and lots of amazing pencil drawings his 3 and 4 year old pals had drawn him, with thoughtful emotive messages written by the teachers. They'd carefully cut out pictures of.... can you guess? Yes, Chihuahua's. A little piece of my heart floated away that day, and resides in his old classroom. I haven't been able to look at his book properly because it has the same affect on me as the ending of West Side Story: "...there's a place for us...." O God stop it. (This is currently my number one song to be played at my funeral, I'm toying with the Tom Wait's version, though its maybe a bit too Muppet Show sounding and it's the tune I want you all to cry at before I lift you with something lighter like Bjork's 'Play Dead' (just kidding), rather than the tune you look quizically at one another, 'I didn't know she was so into Kermit the Frog?!'

So when our friend's were going on a little trip, we happily agreed to dog sit for 2 lovely pooches, a Spaniel, Bert, and a big old dog, Rex. I could tell how happy the kids were because they were over the top nice to the cleaner, Mai, "Thank you for cleaning!" Abe shouts as she says goodbye and leaves for the day. Back home at our serviced apartment they kind of growl as the hired help replenish our towels, and I cringe and over compensate by smiling and bowing, my hands together in prayer(?). I need one of my many cutting friends to reality check me and ask, 'Natalie, what ARE you doing?' I want to teach the kids humility and gratitude in a non-shouty way. If you know how I achieve this, please advise. While you're at it, if you also know how to ensure Abe never wants to join the military, add that too. I think my over-reactions added to the giggling politeness of the victims here, is the thrill for the kids, or perhaps they just want me to bow lower. (I hope I'm not coming over all "We Need To Talk About Kevin", they're actual saints in some circles.)

As I watch Abe playing with Bert and the tennis ball, Bert licks Abe's face. "No Bert! You lick your own willy". Ah ha, so he does listen after all. Also Bert is put on the step for one minute for chewing on a cushion, a new skill the dog's acquired while in our care, and proof that Supernanny has made some kind of an impact.

One morning we awaken to our boy shuffling into our room and hear Patti chunnering away in the distance. "What's Patti doing?" I slur half asleep, it's 6am. "She's feeding Bert bones". "What!" I shout, now alert. We dart into action narrowly avoiding the dollops of poo on the varnished floor. James goes to Bert, I gag in the background. Bert is bewildered and hasn't eaten, or rather has had his fill of dog bones. I hop scotch through the turd and swoop away the kids to wash their feet, shout at them and exile them to the bedroom. James deals with the mess. Equality. Ol' Rex can't be blamed for the mishap, he's a pensioner, and I'm sure when we're pensioners someone will clean up after....(say no more, ey?)

The dog sitting is an overall success, the maid doesn't quit and neither dog leaps to their death off the balcony. There have been highs and lows, but its been a major love-in of Lennon/Ono proportions. If this had been a test to decide whether we are ready for a pooch in our lives, the answer is not yet, but it will happen. Abe and Patti are obsessed, talking about the dogs with the levels of love they express when we talk about their Grandparents and their little mates back home. The day after feels like a comedown.

Happy New Year

I didn't know last January that I'd get the opportunity to celebrate new year twice, but rather than a boozy do with my favourite people in the world, in the wintry Lake District, wood burning fire keeping us toasty, Spotify playing all our (not)guilty pleasures. Thai new year, Songkran, was celebrated a little differently, sans booze and with a group of people we'd never met before. According to our guide book "it is a time of cleansing, renewal and loading up pickup trucks with beds armed with super soakers to douse other water warriors". The wetter you are the more luck you've had bestowed on you. And something to do with talc. As Abe and I waited for a tuk tuk at the roadside, the security bloke outside a hotel approached and happy slapped us with talc, it was all very polite and non threatening. Near to the National Stadium today, I observed grown men fling buckets of water at passers-by, this is why people wear Songkran (Magnum PI style shirts) 'splash me!' I can't imagine this taking off back home amongst the grumpy Harry Cross types (apologies for the old Brookside reference) or the rough dog owners, with chains for leads. Coming to think of it, I'm not sure the tanned and talloned would indulge either. Though it would be nice, a giant water fight in Britain, without the dullard health and safety bods warning us against slipping and infection.

A couple of days ago, we 4 donned our Songkran shirts and attended our first ever pool party. There's not much call for pool parties in Wirral, Yorkshire or Manchester, unless we just mix in dry circles. As we left the comfort of our building, stepping into battle, the kids armed with Angry Birds weaponry, James commented: "I'd rather a water festival than a fire festival", couldn't agree more. I'd be inclined to avoid a 'wind' festival too. Prior to this he moon-walked from the bedroom into the living area, referring to himself as 'fly' - the Yorkshire man who doesn't do fancy dress.

In Bangkok, at the end of every hotel carpark driveway, there stands a uniformed/walky talky chap. They all love our kids, salute them, tickle them as they pass, go all gooey and rush to help us cross the busy road. Today was slightly different, I think the walky talky men were saying "check out these dudes, will be passing your corner in 5, 4, 3, etc". Each corner we turned, in our bright shirts and self-conscious grins, we were greeted by laughing security dudes, who called on to the next one. Paranoia? Maybe so. I had been thinking a lot about being approached by MI5 at the party, targeted as the next real life Bourne, still disappointed this didn't come to fruition. I can fire guns, I can speak a bit of French, did Latin at school, and I'm always meeting people for the second time who act like they've never met me before (you know the types) so I'd fade into shadows quite naturally. Moving on.

I confess to having pre-conceived ideas about this party. It was at the home of my blind play date, and would be attended by expats, Embassy ones. I pictured kaftans, cricket whites, gin, large fans fashioned from tropical branches. I think my idea of 'expat' is based on The Raj mixed with Margo off The Good Life. The party was full of lovely people with offerings of cold beer, useful advice, and enthusiasm for our decision to move to Bangkok. The day culminated with a giant water fight, as much fun for the adults as the kids, and my trepidations were washed away with the old year.

Tired of Waiting

Is my life, or rather this experience, going to be a series of me waiting for things to happen?

We heard about the job in Bangkok in May 2012, we waited for the post to be advertised, then for an interview date, there was the interview, then we awaited an outcome. Waiting, waiting, waiting. I told my work I may be leaving but I can't confirm when. I gave a resignation date, then changed it to a later date, and my colleagues waited with me, for what felt like an eternity. It's been 11 months since we decided it would be a good move for our family. We apply, (I say 'we' because it felt like I was there throughout the entire process, lingering in the background like the last reveller to leave the party). We compose ourselves, ready for 'the move'. People ask questions we can't answer, 'when are you going?' "Dunno" I offer, "soon I hope". James gets the job, we drink fizz, we tell our friends and family, it's official, we're off. Then we wait for a start date, and wait, and wait. Flight details, visa applications, work permits, passport photos, resignations, cancel direct debits 'you can't cancel your contract you've got to wait til blah blah blah'. All the while in a state of limbo. "Are you worried about going?" "No, I just want to go".

So we move, we live in a hotel, it's more than adequate but there's nothing for the kids to do, they're waiting for their toys to arrive. We live in a hotel and we wait til we find somewhere to live, we wait for our belongings and we wait for our move to our more permanent place. We try to find  a school/nursery/domestic help/we wait to find our feet. I read a book The Power Of Now, Eckhart Tolle, which tells me not to wait. I am in conflict with my circumstances.

I am not a natural when it comes to patience, I have an infant-like need to fulfill my desires in the moment. To scratch my itch. In the past this has got me into trouble, but I've never really learnt how to just hang on, but I'm beginning to. Abe (4) and Patti (2) don't understand waiting, they too demand instant gratification so I feed them, when they've been waiting a while, partly to shut them up and stop the whining, and part because that's what I'd like to happen to me when I'm in stasis. Feed me. It's hard to learn patience as a 35+ never mind an under 5. I could never do jigsaws and never bother telling me a riddle. The kids complain: I want my dinner, I want that toy, now mummy, now. And "are we nearly at Bangkok?" "No son, we're on the M56". I'm not cross, I'm patient with them because my inner child is whining and complaining and tsk'ing and frowning.

Suddenly this experience, this time, will have ended. We'll all be back in Blighty and if I'm not careful I'll still be waiting for it to begin. So something has to change, the waiting has to become part of the present otherwise my life will just be a series of standstill non-events, in endless queues: Pleasure - 1 hour from this point.

Is a scarecrow waiting for some birds to scare, or is it fulfilled just by standing in the field?

We are official

OK. So now we have queued up for 2 hours at the visa office and dealt with our children's tantrums in front of the people who decide whether we can stay or not (Tantrums: part and parcel of being anywhere in one place for longer than 10 minutes, picture the 15 hour journey, no don't), we are officially here for at least 12 months. Therefore it is my duty to embroil you with Tales of the Expatriated, pardon the pun.

I do not speak on behalf of other expats, other Brits abroad, other mums, other women, other human beings, other fans of Corrie, other women who can shoot ping-pong balls from their foofs. I shall just be honest and tell you some of my tales, hopefully ones that entertain, but if nothing else it gives me an escape from my new world, where I have NO mates, don't know where I'm going, constantly in a sweaty mess with kids clinging to my (sweaty legs) *you may want to talcum powder your hands first kiddiwinks, get a better grip.

I look forward to sharing this journey with you.

My son turns 4 tomorrow

It is 4 years since I tried to push my son out of my (then in tact) vagina, in our cosy, dimly lit 2 up 2 down bedroom, until a woman eating a Gregg's pasty arrived with an ambulance and carted me off to hospital. I still to this day don't know who she was or why she was in our bedroom at such a private time, but several eye witnesses confirm that it wasn't a pain induced or sleep deprived hallucination. There was a stranger in our bedroom, with pasty in hand, probably the most inappropriate item to bring to a woman in the fully-dilated throws of labour. Part of me hopes when she is in labour, a stranger arrives at her bedside with a sheesh kebab. Karma.

My beautiful boy, born with a frown and a look of 'put me back in', took to my breast within minutes. My husband repeating "it's a boy! Its a boy!" as if talking to a deaf or mentally unwell woman with a brain deterioration issue, because I was so smacked out of my head on pethidine it seemed appropriate to him to connect with me as such. Little did my rock of a partner know (all hail Him) I was there mentally, I'd just lost use of my legs and couldn't string a sentence or show emotion, my feelings were euphoric, and he, my son, felt completely familiar. He had been kicking hell of of me for months, setting fire to my heart, and weighing so much I felt like my nether regions resembled a baboon on heat.

1 day short of 4 years later and my half-asleep frowning boy barges into our hotel room, where we live temporarily until we to move to a new apartment in our new city, Bangkok. He squints into the light, "Mamma!". I carry him back to his bedroom, soothe him back to sleep, kiss his head, snuggle him in, whisper "get comfy baby", "I am comfy!" He replies, factually.

He is my world, he is my everything, my hopes, my joy, my reason, my boy.

Anyone for shrimp poo?

Today I ate a tasty shrimp salad down the road from our hotel. I was really enjoying it until I realised the poo hadn't been removed from their backs, reminded me of when my kids did poos that went right up their backs. I love my kids, but I wouldn't eat their poo, let alone the poo of a bottom feeder! My Auntie ate her daughter's poo once, she thought it was gravy on her arm and she licked it off. Dirty bitch! She is far from both things actually, more born again and cuddly Grandmaish.

Tomorrow I'm going on a blind play date, sans the comforting warmth of Cilla Black to ease the awkwardness. My date is a Singaporian stay-at-home Dad. My friend just asked (by the power of what's app) whether I was taking the kids with me. Imagine if I turned up alone?! I hope the children behave accordingly, they can be a bit hit and miss in company. Tonight my daughter stabbed my husband's boss in the arm with a fork while my son made demands to take over my iPad in a Smeagol style that would terrify Frodo!

I hope I can avoid being too sweaty and shouts at the kids!

Are you there God it's me...hang on a minute, who am I again?

My identity has shifted/paused. Who the hell am I? I don't have a fringe, I'm wearing skimpy summer clothes, I'm tailoring my (dulcet scouse tones) accent to suit my new environment. I'm unemployed, though I'm raising our kids, I'm buying materialistic shit like iPads, stuff I've never been arsed about, I'm having regular beauty treatments - did I mention my hair looks ridiculous and I usually use my follicles as a means of identification (it's important, you wear your hair everyday!)

One minute I'm in Levenshulme, Manchester, protesting about the closure of the local swimming baths and slagging off the council cuts, en masse, and the next minute I'm preparing to interview a Burmese woman who will clean my knickers and feed my kids. I'm in conflict politically speaking. At home (what was home) I see mates everyday, here I have but one friend, who's worth her weight in (the finest Buddhist) gold.

I'm sweating like a pig one minute and freezing to air-conditioned death the next. I'm unfamiliar with everything, I hate Skype, the kids are out of their routine and behaving like Marmalade Atkins and Dennis the Menace. It's like being on maternity leave all over again, which wasn't the happiest of times cos its sodding hard work, and looking after 40 homeless families in deepest, darkest Brinnington, Stockport, was a light relief.

You may think I'm an ungrateful, spoilt bitch, you are welcome to your opinion.

This is my blog.

* I relocated to Bangkok, Thailand on 21st March 2013 with my partner in crime, our 3 yr old boy and our 1 yr old girl.