Adventure Mom

Kiwi Thanks More, Please I planned to skip Thanksgiving in New Zealand this year. We did it last year. I cooked the Best Turkey Ever, and celebrated with my American kids, Kiwi friends, Spanish friends and Pete’s folks. Pete was absent. He was flying with a student when clouds and strong winds forced them to land on the other side of the mountains. They safely returned four days later. We saved Pete a few scraps of turkey and a sliver of pumpkin pie. It's a Luxury This year, as I settle into the new-old-Kiwi life, I’m living as someone who means to stay.  As Someone on a Budget. It means saying ‘no’ to opportunities where I’d previously said, ‘yes.’ Thanksgiving is a luxury. It’s not a Kiwi holiday. Turkeys cost fifty to more than one-hundred dollars, depending on size. Preparing the entire dinner, providing wine, other drinks and dessert could easily cost two to three times the same meal in the States. Also, our rental house includes a small galley kitchen wit...

Thanksgiving Swim Giving Thanks an Ocean Away I did something today I've never done on Thanksgiving - jumped in the ocean. The water in New Zealand's Bay of Plenty is shockingly, refreshingly cold in November. I'd just come off a two-peat of The Mount's summit and it felt good. In a silly, crazy way. I was thinking how grateful I was to be swimming at this time of year; how thankful I am for heaps of people, places and experiences I knew nothing about two years ago, when I prepared my disastrous Cape Town Thanksgiving feast. So here, in ten minutes (ooh - set the oven timer!) is the What-I'm-Thankful-For-2012-List :      1)  Two healthy, (mostly) joyful children  2)  A loving partner who tolerates my moods, quirks and antics  (and probably really, really wishes I wrote fiction). 3)  The fact none of my immediate family is seriously  ill 4)  Sean's gift of love, his 'what-if?' nature and his teaching of what it means to live ...

Thanks, Kmart Lady New Zealand is going to give us the boot. At least, that’s what I’m thinking as I try, for the third time, to print passport photos of my PAHT-nah, Pete. I need the pictures to include in our residency application, which my immigration advisor will submit ASAP. Pete and I swear we’ve already sent her these pictures, and yet – they’re not there. No matter, I’ll send my beloved to the mall for new, white background, official passport pics. Only the weekend’s passed. We left town and FORGOT TO GET THE PICTURES. During the work week, Pete doesn’t stop for anything – not lunch, not errands – bathroom breaks? Not sure. Not asking (He and Finley may have more in common than I thought). You can see why I’m nervous these pictures won’t happen. If we wait another week to get them, well, that’s another week we delay the residency application. It’s another week closer to my work visa expiring (end of June). We’re told it may take a year for Immigration to process ...

Gro-Vember – Together and Apart Can this relationship withstand facial hair? Dueling Mo's  Less than a week after November started (and with it, “Movember,” which encourages men to grow a mustache, goatee or beard), and just two days after Pete told me he wasn’t going to shave for the rest of the month, the seams of our family blanket were starting to split. I couldn’t look at him. I started avoiding him (which isn’t that hard, because lately Pete’s been working 12-hour days). It sounds silly – ostracize your mate because he’s altered (and not to your liking) his appearance?  I’ve been through a hell of a lot worse – try looking at your husband when he’s bloated with 30 pounds of IV fluids, or after he drops 30 pounds because he can’t eat. Pronounced eye sockets and purplish-red skin are not sexy. My late husband, Sean, had all of that – and more. Fuzzy Associations Here’s the thing – for the first week Sean lay unconscious in Intensive Care, he remaine...

Grow-Vember If ya can't beat 'em, join 'em I’m shoveling heaping tablespoons of hazelnut spread into my mouth. Then alternating with forkfuls of peanut butter. It tastes yummy. For the first few spoons, anyway. Let me explain: It’s Monday morning, and I’ve just returned from a glorious 14k (8.5 mile) run. I started just before sunrise at very low tide – the kind of tide that renders the beach enormous - like another kingdom has washed ashore. I ran up The Mount, and just because I could, ran around it, too. On my way back, down the long stretch of Marine Parade, I imagine coming home to the PAHT-nah, who, after a scraggly weekend (Pete often ditches the razor for several days), must surely have scraped away the stubble I’ve been staring at for four days – the beard that’s way past sexy, well on its way to just-got-outta-jail.  Pete, with facial overgrowth, looks slightly sinister. One week sans shaving adds ten years to his appearance. Beyond that – well...