Happy Halloween

Halloween is not a British holiday. Our neighborhood is so filled with expats, however, that it is catching on. Margot was Cinderella for Halloween. This was quite easy as she dresses in her gown most afternoons anyway.

We attended a Halloween parade two weeks ago, where all the American kiddies marched up and down the High Street in costume. Moms, American Moms, dressed as witches were stationed at key spots to distribute candy. As it was October 13, we got a lot of confused looks from the locals. Then, we all marched to the local cinema where they had a screening of Monsters, Inc. Margot loved the event, but any holiday that involves chocolate is a sure-fire hit.

Margot, Owen & I went trick-or-treating on Wednesday night after tea (translation: tea=dinner for kiddies at 5pm). We finally got a glimpse inside the gorgeous house on the corner of our street. Now I can stop peeking through the fence wondering how the other half lives. Very nicely, apparently.

We heard scoop of which streets actually “do” Halloween. We wandered over and joined the masses of Americans and “new adopters” of our spooky holiday. Margot had been practicing saying “trick-or-treat” but didn’t get up the nerve at any of the homes. “I’ll just smile at them,” she told me. That worked.

We collected about 10 pieces of candy when Margot became aware of kids in masks, followed by a freak-out. The timing was perfect. We went home. It was all over in about 30 minutes.

Oh, and Owen was a dragon. Margot collected candy for Owen, and decided she could eat it for him. So thoughtful.

Enjoy some photos.

God Save the Queen and the NY Giants

So the NFL came to London last week. Granted, I generally run in American expat circles, but there was quite a bit of buzz about the game from both locals and foreigners. True American football fans go to great lengths to follow their teams back home.

Andy has ransomed his life to Yahoo! to watch the Jets game each week. He gets the game on the PC, then connects the laptop to the big-screen TV to watch the action. He’ll put up with pixelated images, screen-saver interruptions and full-on crashes just to glimpse Chad throwing another too-short pass. The games run late into the evenings for us. Most Sunday nights he stumbles into bed in the wee hours, cursing another fourth-quarter debacle.

Occasionally, our preferred team will be on Sky Sports, which syndicates games from the US networks. They don’t show American commercials, but fill that time with horrible montages of cheerleaders and highlight reels from past seasons. Inevitably, one highlight shows the Jets blowing some play. The announcers are British, which is odd, or former players-turned-broadcasters who were rejected by the American networks for good reason.

Thousands of Americans flew into London for the big game, including Grandma and Papa and Mary S. When Grandma and Papa passed through customs, the agents were still buzzing about the Miami Dolphins cheerleaders who arrived en masse the day before. I imagine them wearing their sparkly, midriff-bearing outfits and bouncing their way through the line (the cheerleaders, not Grandma and Papa).

On Sunday, we took the tube to the “new” Wembley, only one stop from our home station. There was great excitement as we approached the stadium. People were talking of “history in the making” and flashes were going off as everyone was taking pictures of the stadium, the crowd, the football banners and the giant animatronic Miami Dolphin player.

We split into two groups. I was fortunate to be in the group with Grandma and Papa. As I sat down, I couldn’t help but notice that the 50-yard line literally ran through my seat. Nice. We met some entertaining folks from New Jersey and New York around us, all bemoaning the horrible state of food in London. The place smelled like a KFC as everyone was eating fish-and-chips.

The game opened with the typical fanfare. We realized how many Brits were there when the crowd sang a rousing rendition of God Save the Queen, much louder than The Star-Spangled Banner (but honestly, who can sing that song anyway?)

The football game itself wasn’t all that great. The Miami Dolphins have yet to win a game this season. Our biggest concern was that the NY Giants not lose. The highlight, for many, was the streaker who stole the spotlight during halftime. I missed his performance but Grandma managed to catch him with her digital camera. Good work.

In the end, the Giants won. Grandma collected the names of people in our section who wanted a copy of the streaker photo. A good time was had by all.

Get a better view of the streaker here.

Would You Like Some Fairy Dust with That?

Margot was on term break from nursery this week so we were looking for some activities to fill our days. When Margot was staring into the window of the local Mystical Fairies store (again), we noticed a flyer for Fairy School: two hours of learning to be a fairy, with crafts, cupcakes (aka fairy cakes here), dancing and general fairy-ness. It all sounded like a nightmare to me, but perfect for Margot. So we signed on.

Inside, the fairy store is a floor-to-ceiling pink, sparkly, girly world. To Margot, it's pure magic. It looks to me like someone vomited Pepto-Bismol. The sales people are dressed as fairies. When you buy something, they ask cheerily, "Would you like some fairy dust with that?" It's all I can do to say, "uh, no thank you" and not run screaming.

Anyway, we descended into the cellar, Fairy World. The walls are murals of flowers, stars, fairies and such things. Giant flowers emerge from the walls. It's not a large room and they pack in 20 wannabe fairies and their carers. It was suffocating. My head started to throb. We signed up with two friends: one a potty-training no-show and the other bailed early claiming a pending fever. Cowards!

Each little girl borrows a fairy dress, unless her mom already shelled out 60GBP for one upstairs. Margot elbowed out some other girls for her selection. We soldiered on with sparkly crafts, disco dancing, singing, story-telling, hand-painting (Margot doesn't do face-painting) and fairy-cake decorating. The three fairies who run the event are either great actresses or take some sort of mind-altering drugs. They kept the little ones enthralled and completely believing they were fairies.

Margot had a fabulous time. I didn't deck anyone. We even managed to leave the store without any fairy dust.

Owen is Nine Months: Help Us

At nine months, Owen is a one-man wrecking crew. I’d put him in a playpen if I didn’t think he’d plow right through it.

He is now cruising, pulling himself up on anything, whether it can bear his weight or not. He thinks he can walk which causes considerable problems. He finds himself standing alone and then drops like Marie Osmond in Dancing with the Stars. (Yes, they have it here and I watch it religiously.)

He has sustained his first major head wound, a good bleeder on the eyebrow, crashing into his sister’s closet. Actually, it fits him in some way: The Brooklyn Bleeder.

He recently crawled into my bathroom, pulled himself up on the bidet, lifted the drain out and stuck it in his mouth. His mother screamed. This is a typical moment with Owen.

Luckily, he’s a very happy kid for the most part. He is fighting constant colds, mostly derived from his sister’s germ incubator (aka: nursery). So, he’s not sleeping well which means no one is sleeping well.

Owen constantly pesters his big sister, who is learning the old “shove-and-run.” He appreciates any attention from her, even if it is a kick in the side. He can take it.

Here are a few photos.