Adventure Mom

A Glowering We Go Making new memories upside down at the bottom of the world  works well, until you attach expectations to events. If you expect something to be fun, festive and illuminating, you raise your odds of being disappointed. Await crap and you may be pleasantly surprised.  For example, the Partner recently organized an excursion to one of New Zealand's famous glow worm caves. His former flat mate, who works for a tour company, was selling van trips combining caves and carols. For $140 (NZ), the kids, Pete and I could take a comfortable two-hour ride to Waitomo for holiday entertainment combined with those magical glowing worms. Despite the fact the kids and I could make the trip ourselves for about one-third the cost, I said okay. The special holiday event would be worth it. And I'd wanted to see the glow worm caves ever since we arrived at the North Island. Pete said, "It's one more thing you can tick off your list." Oh, ye of too much faith.

Thanks and Giving Part 2  [continued from Part 1, which you really should read first before diving into this stream-of-consciousness-piece-of-Vegemite sandwich] Separation is hard, especially when you're the one sitting alone on the brown leather lounge suite, drinking Pinot Gris while watching Extreme Makeover, followed by David Bowie singing "Fashion" on MTV. I ended the trash TV trilogy four minutes too late, transfixed on a music video so hilariously disturbing, I was compelled to search for it later that night on You Tube (do NOT look for Duck Sauce. There. I've warned you). As I write, Pete's spending his second unscheduled night in the hinterlands of the North Island (a place called Hawera). He was training a student to fly when low clouds moved in. They're grounded until weather improves. I miss him. A lot. The voice in my head says, "See? It's not gonna be easy. This is a tiny taste of the bitter partition potion you're brewing." T

Thanks + Giving  Part One I didn't mean to leave you and never return. I told you I'd be back. And I will. It's just taking me longer than I'd imagined to shake the wanderlust/settle in a new place/extricate myself from the new place/work my way around the world. I fantasize about you. I imagine your warmth like summer sunshine glowing against my skin. You comfort me. You give me space and time to be me. I imagine opening the door and seeing you again, a tinge of excitement on my face. You're not fancy. Some might say you're old-fashioned. Dependable. I can rely on you, day or night. Even your movements comfort me. It's the sameness – around and around, over and over again. I'm embarrassed I've forgotten your name. Is it Kenmore? Or Maytag? It's one of those, I'm sure. You must be at least 15 years old. I'm unconcerned about your age. It's performance I seek, my beloved. My clothes dryer. Yes, I've missed my dryer. I never

One Month Later- Wringing the Romance I'm going to tell you how to wring the romance from a seven-month-old relationship, much the same as you'd wring sweat from an old sock. Move in together. Follow a two-month housing search with a two-week move-in process. Help hoist a 50-inch television. Stand on the stairs in front of a battered brown wooden dresser, listening to your Beloved say, "A little more to the left. Now, to the right." Examine your Soul Mate's stuff collected during 45 years of (mostly bachelor) life: a half-dozen duvet innards; enough old sheets and towels to outfit a 1960's era no-tell motel; stacks of paper, books, a wobbly office chair, broken vacuum cleaner... odds and ends that could one day prove useful, but more likely, are destined for the tip (dump). Start hanging your Adorable One's laundry on the line (because you lack a staple of American living, a clothes dryer). Note the college-style collection of tees: a brown shirt with

Finding Home 2 Moving In The Boyfriend, Pete, suggested shortly after I began my housing search that we move in together. "We could share expenses and I could help with the kids. We'd have more time with each other." He had me on that last point. After all, we don't know how long we'll remain in the same place. Both of us have a complicated set of financial circumstances tethering us to our home countries. One party will likely make an extreme sacrifice if we're to stay together. So The Boyfriend and I, while leaving all doors open for a joint future, are mindful of our imperative: Savor the here and now. If I could find a rental suitable for the four of us – Fiona, Finley, Pete and me, we'd live together. I looked at eight properties, which were either too grotty, too pricey, too small or got snapped up in a hurry by someone else. The Mount is a tight rental market. Take it now, or it's gone. I tour Property Number Nine on a Saturday morning. I f

Finding Home Part One – The Hunt I have just started "shacking up" with The Boyfriend, Pete. This might not be a huge deal, except for the fact I'm not the only one sharing space with my beloved. My first loves and numero uno priorities, Fiona and Finley, are, by necessity, shacking, too. This detour is a deviation from plan - a shifting of traffic cones and guard rails in life's construction zone. I started second-guessing our world tour schedule two weeks after the kids started primary school. "What if we stay in New Zealand a bit longer?" I thought. "What if the kids got to finish the school year here?" Be careful with "what ifs." What-plus-if can roll you down roads you failed to notice on your map. They're small, squiggly secondary streets marked in a thin black line. Roads only locals travel. During the time I was busy "what-iffing" rather than packing and boarding a plane back to Spokane, two major events colli